#those things might be mid or they might be genuinely life-affirming and the only way to find out is to decide to stay.

[snowshinobi]

thinking about that girl who wanted to die in high school (me) and how nice it was that she didn't because i'm still angry and sad but with the understanding that death is inevitable and there's things to live for before we get there

[psychedelic-ink]

This is the artwork that I commissioned from the talented @mjpens🧡

Stay In Bed has truly been one of my favorite things to write, I am genuinely so emotional over this series and my own relationship with it. I'm still surprised by the feedback and the love, so I would also want to thank everyone for their undying support and enthusiasm for it 🧡🧡🧡

This is from one of the scenes I wrote for chapter 6 and I can't stop staring at it. Thank you Maia for making this come to life, this made me beyond happy 🥺🧡

(I would also like to emphasize that in the story reader does not have a physical description whatsoever. I went the self-indulgent route and asked for it to be a self-insert <3)

the written scene is below the cut for those who are curious 🤭

“How do you like your coffee?” 

“With milk,” you answer. “A lot of it, preferably.” 

“So milk with a dash of coffee,” he grins, amused. “Got it.” 

It’s been a couple of days since you moved in with Joel and Sarah. It was much easier to live with the father-daughter due than you initially had thought. Tommy came over in the mornings, dropping you off to work and Sarah to school, and the brothers went to do their own thing after that. 

With Joel’s back turned to you, you look down at your sketchbook and add another line to what is supposed to be his unruly hair. He really needs a haircut. 

Surprisingly living with him isn’t weird at all. He made you feel welcome. No awkward glances, no awkward touching. Just neighbors helping each other out. He places the steaming mug next to you and leans on his elbows. He looks at what you’re drawing and raises an eyebrow. 

Joel brings the mug to his lips. 

“You’re paintin’ me?” 

“I’m sketching you,” you answer. “You’re a lovely specimen.” 

“Is that so.” 

The scent of coffee fills your lungs. Lifting your gaze, you observe his facial structures. You see the imperfections, take in the sight of his eyes, his bushy eyebrows, and the bald patches in his beard. You want to touch the small beauty park right in the corner of his eye that’s impossible to see unless you’re an inch further away. 

 If he knew how you saw him—if he knew how big he was in your mind— Joel would be terrified. 

“Do you like art?” you ask, taking him by surprise. He takes a sip of his coffee and your gaze drops back to your sketch.  

He hums, fingers thrumming the kitchen counter. “I like your art.” 

“I should take you guys to an art gallery or something,” you say, smiling. “If you like mine, you’re going to go nuts over the things that are out there.” 

Joel pouts and you roll your eyes. “What are you looking at me like that for?” you ask.

“I like your drawings. They’re—They feel close. I don’t know how else to describe it.” 

It’s because it’s you who I think of when I create them. 

“Do you know Salvador Dali?” you ask, then quickly add. “Or Dorothea Tanning?” 

“Sweetheart, the only artist I know is Da Vinci and I’m not even a hundred percent sure he is one.” 

“He is,” you affirm him excitedly, looking back up. “I love surrealism. It’s when everything gets really weird basically. So—wait let me show you. I think I have a couple of pictures between the pages.” 

You miss the way Joel’s lips slowly curl up, adoration and fondness adorning his face, softening the edges. He comes closer. Your pulse quickens as your fingers rush to find the images, and when they do you basically rip them out from between the pages 

“Look.” 

All of them are images from Dali’s artwork. Mainly butterflies. Joel observes them carefully, touching them as if fearing he might stain them. You urge him to take a closer look by placing one between his thick fingers. It’s The Butterfly Rose. 

“Never thought you would do homework for a hobby.” 

“It’s not—” You let out an exasperated sigh, cutting yourself off mid-sentence. “Do you think I want to work at the coffee house forever? It’s not just a hobby. And of course, as an artist, I look at other art to be inspired. They make me feel things.” Seeing the startled expression on his face, you add, “Don’t you get like…shivers or something when you see a very nice wooden table?”

Oh, you made him uncomfortable. You sense that in an instant. His fingers trace the image of the painting, looking down, you notice the crease between his brows deepening with concentration. Was he concentrating on the image? In your words? You have no idea—the only thing you know is that this man concentrating on art is making your insides clench with a need. 

“Sorry,” he grumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that. I do think you’re a serious artist. It’s just…fuck that came out wrong. I just didn’t think you would put in this much effort to somethin’ I said,” he shakes his head. “Shit, I’m bad at this.” 

That undeniable need to touch him comes rushing back. You bite the inside of your bottom lip instead. “ I think I might’ve overreacted after hearing the same thing from my brother all the time. It’s all good. You might be the only one that takes me seriously so it was unfair for me to jump to conclusions like that.” 

“He don’t support you?” 

“He does…” you trail off. “In his own way, I guess.” 

“That doesn’t sound like support,” he answers, clicking his tongue. “And just FYI I like your butterflies better, sweet tea.” 

“Sweet tea?” you ask, lips curling with amusement and eyes widening with shock. 

He shrugs. “You said you liked Dorothea…somethin’---” 

“Tanning.” you quickly say. “So Sweet Tea as in…the last syllable of her name?” 

“Would you rather I call you Tea?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Nope!” you grin, your heart elevated. “Sweet Tea is perfect.” 

With a soft smile, Joel places the picture in front of you and gently taps on it. 

“Well then, Sweet Tea,” he says. “Tell me more about this surrealism thing.” 

[joachimnapoleon]

I'm reading a preview of Charles-Eloi Vial's "Histoire des Cent-Jours" on Amazon, in which the author mentions that when Napoleon was on Elba, he reconciled with Murat. Do you know anything about this matter?

The subject of the reconciliation between Napoleon and Murat is one of those things about which I still have as many questions as answers.

Correspondence between the two during Napoleon’s exile on Elba is borderline nonexistent; I haven’t come across any letters from Murat to Napoleon from this time, so unless there’s something locked away in the private Archives Murat in the French National Archives, it probably no longer exists.

But, there was certainly some correspondence between them. There’s really no way to know how much, but Napoleon’s Correspondance Générale contains letters to Murat during the Elban exile and also references to other letters between them made by Napoleon to Bertrand. I was surprised to learn recently--thanks to @josefavomjaaga for sending it to me from her volume of the Correspondance--that Napoleon actually wrote to both Murat and Caroline shortly after his arrival on Elba. Both letters are dated 11 May 1814; Napoleon informs both of them of his having just arrived on Elba. He tells them both of Pauline’s impending arrival and asks for Caroline to send him news through someone she trusts.

Pauline arrives on Elba, and then leaves for Naples almost immediately after; I don’t think she’s on Elba for more than a couple days before she departs for Naples. She remains in Naples for months before her return to Elba, and it’s generally believed that she served as the go-between to effect the “reconciliation” between Murat and Napoleon. It’s assumed she was sending letters back and forth between the two. How many letters? What were the contents? There’s really no way to know. Napoleon references one specific letter from Murat, in September 1814, while writing to Bertrand on 9 September:

I have received a very tender letter from the king of Naples; he claims to have written to me several times but I doubt it, it seems that the affairs of France and Italy set his head straight and make him affectionate.

There’s nothing else until the eve of Napoleon’s departure from Elba. He fires off two letters to Murat on 17 February 1815 to let him know he’s sending him a man by the name of Colonna “in order to communicate to you some important and urgent matters,” no doubt about Napoleon’s upcoming return to France. Colonna, he tells Murat, “is authorized to sign every convention Your Majesty may desire with regards to our affairs…. Your Majesty must in particular trust in everything he tells you about my attachment and the high consideration with which I remain.” The second letter from the same day thanks Murat “for what you have done for the countess Walewska,” reiterates that Colonna is coming and “will tell you some big and important things. I’m counting on you and most importantly on utmost speed. Time is pressing. My love to the queen and to your children.” An undated, ciphered letter from Portoferraio, believed to be written between 22-26 February, tells Murat that he’s just waiting for favorable conditions to make his escape: “The winds have been increasing for the last three days and have forced the English warship to move somewhat away from our shores. But it can return any moment and my brick is not capable of competing with it. If I had one of your vessels, I would leave in broad daylight and I would sink anything that stood in my way.” Murat actually does end up sending a vessel, but by the time it gets to Elba, Napoleon has already left.

So, there probably was more correspondence between them, either written or verbal--but there’s just no record of it.

It’s important to point out that Murat’s “allies” (particularly the British) were looking for any excuse they could find during this period to justify turning on and dethroning him. Proof of a correspondence with Napoleon would’ve given them all the ammunition they needed. This is where it gets interesting. Napoleon will claim later on Saint Helena that the allies “doctored” Murat’s papers (to prove there was a correspondence between the two during the Elban exile). And there is an interesting excerpt from the memoirs of Dedem, who claims that the Congress of Vienna received, via the French Bourbons, copies of letters between Murat and Napoleon, left by a careless person close to Murat. I’m assuming that this individual (whom Dedem leaves unnamed save his first initial) is M. de Baudus, former tutor of the Murat children, sent by Napoleon to Toulon as an intermediary after Murat’s defeat at Tolentino; Baudus was to inform Murat that Napoleon would not receive him in Paris, that he was to stay put for the time being under a sort of house arrest while events played themselves out (Napoleon was on the way to Waterloo), and that Napoleon blamed Murat for having “ruined” France in 1814 and having “compromised her and ruined himself” in 1815. Anyway, here is the excerpt from Dedem:

The Tuileries cabinet had sent copies of his correspondence with Napoleon, and it was on these certified copies that Joachim was tried and condemned. Well, thanks to the thoughtlessness of the Count de B… who forgot (in following the King to Ghent) all his correspondence in an armoire at the chateau, we now know that all these letters had been truncated. Napoleon found the originals with the minutes of the copies drawn up in a way which served to lose Joachim; all the copies were in the hand of M. de B… attached by pins to the letters of the King of Naples.

Dedem includes the following footnote at the end of this paragraph:

It is from a man very worthy of trust, whom Napoleon had recalled to him in his cabinet during the Hundred Days and who neither loved nor complained of Joachim, that I have these details. He assured me that he had seen and re-read the letters several times.

So the Bourbons either found enough damning correspondence between Murat and Napoleon--or altered it enough to make it look damning--and sent it on to the Congress of Vienna so they could justify removing Murat from his throne once and for all.

Now, as to the matter of how sincere the “reconciliation” between Murat and Napoleon was… that’s another story. Louise Murat’s take is that the reconciliation was more sincere on her father’s part than on Napoleon’s:

So it was not long before the reconciliation took place and, if we can affirm that, for his part, it was as complete as possible, I do not know if… we will be able to affirm likewise that all traces of the past were also erased from the Emperor’s mind.

This subject bears some remarking on the relationship between the two men in general. There was a lot of bad blood between them by the time of Napoleon’s first exile, going back years before Murat’s treaty with Austria in 1814. Murat had felt ill-used and mistreated by Napoleon since at least 1809, things had gotten downright ugly between them in 1811, and in the aftermath of the 1812 campaign Murat was increasingly resentful of Napoleon’s treatment of him. Napoleon, for his part, had been incapable of trusting Murat since being informed, in 1809, of a scheme between Fouché and Talleyrand to have Murat succeed him in the event that Napoleon died without a legitimate male heir; much of his conduct towards Murat from that time forward comes across as deliberately spiteful and intentionally humiliating. Murat was vain and proud and it took him a long time to get over these kinds of slights and embarrassments. But, he was also capable of forgiving people he believed had wronged him--for example, Murat had restored Lavauguyon to his service years later after having suspected him of having an affair with Caroline in 1811. And I personally believe he retained a certain amount of affection for Napoleon even in spite of their nearly constant quarrels, and kept hoping to find some way to regain Napoleon’s affections, which he felt he had lost without ever quite understanding why; he concludes a letter to Napoleon in 1810 with “Love me as in Poland, as in Prussia, and I will love life again.” He didn’t enter into his decision to leave Napoleon in 1814 easily, and from everything I’ve seen it seems to have been extremely agonizing for him, and the news that the Allies had driven Napoleon from his throne and into exile in 1814 devastated both Murat and Caroline.

All of that being said, there was still some amount of self-interest in Murat’s attempting to aid Napoleon in 1815, and also in his striking out against the Austrians shortly after Napoleon reached France. Caroline believed that Napoleon would eventually drive them from the throne of Naples if he managed to keep his own, and Murat himself very likely saw the reason in this, and hoped he might safeguard himself by claiming all of Italy.

For Napoleon’s part, I tend to think Louise Murat was probably right; I think he saw Murat, being the only member of his family still on a throne, as a useful tool for his own eventual restoration. There’s a footnote in Bertrand’s Saint Helena cahiers basically saying that Napoleon never gave any indication of having genuinely forgiven Murat for 1814, and I personally think that’s probably the case. In mid-April of 1815--not even a week after sending Murat a letter from Paris, assuring Murat “You can count on my attachment,” Napoleon sends a note to his Minister of Foreign Affairs ordering a report on Murat’s conduct in 1814. My guess is, if Napoleon had triumphed at Waterloo and secured his throne, Murat still would’ve found himself in a world of hurt eventually. Murat seems to have anticipated this himself; in June 1815--actually the day after Waterloo, about which he was still oblivious--he is writing once more to Napoleon--the last letter he will ever write him--basically offering himself up on a silver platter:

I have nothing more to ask of Your Majesty, he can pronounce my fate unsparingly; your wishes, whatever they may be, will be carried out. Glad to be lost for you, no complaints will be heard from my mouth, but you can dispense with sending me in the future what they want to call consolations by people named as my friends; may your ministers make positively known to me the place of my exile; I will go there without a murmur.

[primasveraas-writing]

And In Darkness, I Stand- Chapter 4

Kallus' leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.

1  2 3 4 5

4. Yavin IV

“Captain Kallus.”

Kallus turns the best he can, gripping the handle of his cane as he does. Zeb is making his way over, his tall frame parting the flow of traffic in the hall.

“Kal,” Zeb amends with a smile, brushing a hand against the small of Kallus’ back. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Kallus nods, and grimaces. “I don't suppose I can use my position to get out of physical therapy?”

“No. I’ll still carry you there myself if I have to.”

Heat flames across Kallus’ cheek, but there’s nothing he can say to defend himself. His daily routine has been centered around his recovery for weeks, despite his protestations. On his first day back, he reported to Command for an extra few hours rather than going to the medbay, which caused a small uproar among the likes of Hera and Zeb. The resulting situation was a lecture from Zeb and the entire medical staff, as well as a warning from Command as to where his priorities should lie.

But aside from the initial excitement, Kallus has settled in quite well. He has his own post and a small command to his name. He’s been forgiven by the Rebels in an official capacity, and has learned when to ignore the snide comments made by his less-forgiving compatriots. For the most part, his job is normal and steady- he’s in the company of fellow spies most of the time, but everyone on Yavin is well acquainted with danger, regardless of their roles within the Rebellion. He nearly fits in.

It would be better if he were not so limited by his physical ability. He cannot stand on his leg unsupported, so he has been using a cane constantly, save for a few small excursions across his quarters, which, so far, have been painful and short-lived.

Suddenly, Kallus is bad at keeping himself out of trouble, between his efforts to heal and his apparently lacking self-care habits. This is yet another change he attributes to rebel influence, but he rather likes it, even if he is adjusting to this new life slowly.

“You’re improving and you’re not going to stop now,” Zeb growls. He may as well be threatening Kallus, who minds this fact very little. His hand tightens on his cane.

“I know,” Kallus breathes, and drops his gaze. His next step forward is slightly unsteady, but he’s overly aware of Zeb watching him closely and that his friend is fully prepared to catch him should he trip.

Kallus hasn’t fallen in weeks. He can make it all the way across base without needing to rest now. The medics say the fracture is largely healed, and he thinks he must have made some kind of progress over the last few weeks.

“Are you coming with me?” Kallus tries not to sound too hopeful or excited; Zeb usually accompanies him to the medcenter for checkups and therapy, if only to ensure that Kallus himself actually attends.

“Of course.” Zeb glances at him. “‘Til you say you don’t want me there.”

“I do,” Kallus affirms, too quickly, and tries to discern if he’s blushing again. His face still feels hot.

They make their way down to the medcenter, where the staff greets him and Zeb both by name. The journey takes longer than he’d like, and Kallus tries not to count how many people pass him. It’s mid-afternoon by then, and his leg has started to twinge, although he turns away from Zeb and bites the inside of his cheek to get through the moments of pain.

Zeb steadies him as he strips off his jacket and boots, clutching Kallus’ left elbow. Kallus shoots him a grateful smile. He wobbles on one leg, unsteady, and he knows he will not fall.

“Ready?”

It’s not Zeb who asks, but a nurse. Cida Amada, who was one of the first people he got to know during his stay in the medcenter. She barely looks old enough to have such responsibility, with her shy smiles and soft tones, but she and Kallus took a liking to each other. They made each other cry, he lost in frustration and agony, and she hurt after discovering his tendency to yell and swear when in crippling pain. Yet once he had apologized, their relationship improved, and Amada became his primary caretaker, which most predominantly includes cajoling him into showing up for his appointments.

She and Zeb seem to adore each other for this fact. Kallus can only pretend he hates it so much.

He nods, his mouth suddenly dry, and she reaches out to take his hand. He lets her, and Cida smiles at him, not meeting his eyes for more than a few seconds.

“It’ll feel better later even if it’s uncomfortable right now, Alexsandr. How have the last few rotations been?”

She is gentle and kind. Forgiving, too, which is the strangest of offerings he’s even been gifted in his life. Kallus mostly expected to be dead by now, rather than guided through a half-stocked medbay by a medic exclusively trained by war doctors. Cida genuinely likes him, too, which is odd. Both Hera and Zeb had to assure him of this fact, though Kallus is sure she wouldn’t be capable of pretending otherwise. He first had doubts about the girl’s abilities as a liar since she apologized for taking a blood sample from him. She is too good to lie, which, he supposes, is why he’s a former Imperial-turned-spy, and she is a rebel war doctor.

Cida stretches his legs and guides him through a few exercises that should be simple but prove exceedingly difficult for Kallus. He has to touch his toes. Climb stairs. Walk 2 meters with support on either side. He grits his teeth and sweats through it, mumbling curses that Cida and Zeb pretend not to hear when he inevitably falters.

His hands shake for an hour afterward. Kallus showers and lies on his bunk, exhausted.

His leg feels better than it did before.

 Had he stayed with the Empire, Kallus would have received higher quality medical care.

He might not be stuck with a limp and a cane. 

First, he would have needed to swallow his damned pride and ask for treatment, and then the initial break would not have affected him for the rest of his life. The Imperial meddroids would have returned him to normal in a matter of days, if not weeks, and Thrawn would have never rebroken the leg, even if Kallus had pursued life as Fulcrum. The Empire is equipped with better resources and better training.

But he didn’t ask for help, not upon his return from Bahryn nor any of the painful days after. Konstantine didn’t even look up at him. If anyone noticed he was uncomfortable or weaker, they politely looked away and saved that topic of discussion for when his back was turned. Kallus was alone in caring for himself, and it was thus unimportant to everyone in the Empire, including him. He adopted the same attitude regarding his own health.

Hera had caught him when he collapsed, after Atollon. Cida cried when he cried because she hated seeing him in pain. Zeb has been there for him in more ways than he can count.

Sometimes, Zeb calls him Alex. He hasn’t had that nickname since he was a little boy- his parents never bothered with it and he had few friends by the time he entered the Imperial Academy.

Zeb is the only one, in his entire life, who has called him Kal.

That’s yet another thing they share. Kallus has gleamed that Zeb never fully revealed the truth of what happened on Bahryn, even to the rest of the Ghost crew.

He does not know what would be enough to repay the Rebels. They have so little, yet they give to him, in time and effort and supplies and trust. It would be more just if these things were diverted to another, not to a formal Imperial, but they will not let him refuse their generosity.

Kallus would give his life for these people. For Zeb and the Spectres, certainly, but for those he does not know, too. For the ones who hurl dirty looks and harsh words at him in the mess and hallways, for Cida, for the other Fulcrums, for every rebel on Yavin and the galaxy beyond.

His life would not be enough, when they are the very people who have given it back to him. Kallus’ life is marred and stained and broken. He can offer the rebels service and secrets and loyalty, and he will do all he can to see them to victory. 

He wonders about that, too. He would be more confident about winning the war were he still an Imperial agent. He is a man of facts and logic, and he knows that the odds are against the rebels to prevail over the Empire.

But he believes in the rebels. Kallus believes in their cause and their people. That alone has carried them further than Kallus ever predicted.

He would give his life for them without thinking. He gives his hope and keeps his doubt and his cynicism, heavy as they are, so that they do not burden those like Pica and Leia Organa and Ezra Bridger.

Even as a rebel, being a spy still demands a certain mindset of coldness and hardness. Kallus is learning mercy, and he is learning how mercy does and doesn’t fit into his role. Draven has told him more than once that they serve the cause of the Rebellion, not its people.

Kallus is not sure he agrees. Draven has the end of the war in sight, and that is what grants Kallus peace of mind while the familiarity of Draven’s words nags at him.

Draven has also told Kallus that he is still useful, despite his leg. The General had looked at Kallus with pity while he had said it. Kallus will prove him wrong, and his heart sings with a small amount of pride with the knowledge of the difference he has made already under and to Draven’s command.

Kallus is trying to be good in his new role. He is also trying to become someone worthy of the friendship and care that the rebels have shown him.

He wants to be accepted by them. He wants to be their friend.

 “Alexsandr!”

The use of his full first name startles him, nearly as much as the alarm in Zeb’s voice does. Zeb is staring at him from across the hangar, Hera by his size. The droid, Chopper, makes some obscene noise that Kallus can only assume is scolding.

The trio is at his side quickly, and Kallus grunts as he loads the shipment onto the shuttle.

“I can do that,” Hera says. She sounds mildly scandalized, and she takes the box from his hands. Chopper wags his mechanical arm at Kallus, and emits a horrifying cackle at the indignation on his face.

“No cane?” Zeb sounds surprised, but Kallus has had a good few days. He’s permitted not to use it for short amounts of time, given that his leg doesn’t start hurting. He and Cida are hoping that this will become the norm, that he will only need his cane some days. Kallus has floated the idea of field missions once or twice already, but he’ll push for more unsupervised walking first.

“Not for a while.” It’s nearly strange not to have the cane in his hand, but he’s been making good use of his free hands for a while. Then: “General, I assure you I am very capable of doing that.”

Kallus tries to take the next box from Hera, who passes to Zeb. In turn, he holds the box over their heads, then sets it in the shuttle.

“You could hurt yourself,” Hera chides. “Let us help you.”

“Lifting a few crates will hardly send me into critical condition,” Kallus protests, but the words are weakened when Hera glares at him. Chopper laughs again. “My leg is injured, not my arms.”

“No extra weight,” Zeb reminds him, taking another box from Hera. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“It’s just-”

“We’re happy to help,” Hera interrupts. She exchanges a look with Zeb, and Kallus bites back a retort. He’s perfectly capable.

The next time he sees Cida, Kallus is sure to mention lightening the restrictions on his carrying weight. She’s willing to negotiate, at the very least, and they argue until it’s agreed that Kallus can lift, but not carry, a few kilos. He’s sure to complain very little for the rest of the session, and the nurse sends him away with a smile at the end of the day.

She tells him he’s making progress; a statement constantly echoed by Zeb. Physical therapy becomes easier and less frequent; he’s fully adjusted to using his cane, although he has started to go many days without it. At first, it’s painful- he can only endure the day without his cane if he stays in Command, but then weeks pass and he can move around base on his own. He’s outfitted with temporary mechanical braces, and he goes on his first field mission as a rebel.

The days are not bad, and the initial mission goes smoothly, as do all the ones after that.

When night falls after he returns, Kallus can barely stand, and the pain reduces him mostly immobile.

Cida worms this fact out of him after he spends two rotations chasing down a rogue informant. He had been late to see her, and stiff and quiet during their appointment.

“You’ll make it worse,” she warns him. His leg has been swelling, too. “Too much at once will only hurt you.”

“I’m useful out there,” Kallus insists, staring at his injured leg. It would be a waste if he remained on base all the time. “If I can get stronger, then I can fight.”

Cida sighs, her eyes full of worry. Kallus looks away, his heart poisoned with guilt. “If you keep doing this, you may last a few months or a cycle. After that, you could spend the rest of your life walking with pain and assistance.”

He nods once. That’s as much time as he needs, regardless of what follows.

Kallus has greater potential than what his leg allows. He could be one of the best ground fighters on base, if his body worked right.

 “Does your leg hurt?”

Kallus grunts. “My leg always hurts.” He shifts, moving his lower body as little as possible, but Zeb moves into his full view a moment later.

“You shoulda said something on way back-”

“I’m fine, Zeb.”

“Your cane-”

“It hurts with or without the cane,” Kallus snaps, then averts his eyes. Zeb’s ears flatten, and Kallus’ stomach flips.

“Are you gonna use it now?” Zeb asks quietly. They still don’t look at each other.

Kallus reaches for the offending object and thumps it against the ground. “Yes,” he mutters. That’s the only reason he got here, in some dirty corner of the base. The cane saw him back from the medbay and into the spot where he had chosen to sulk.

Apparently, the covert location wasn’t quite private enough. That, or Zeb knows him too well, because he seems to have sought Kallus out with ease. But here he is, sitting on the floor with Kallus and watching the rest of the Rebellion walk by, totally oblivious to their discussion.

“Today is a bad day,” Kallus says. That’s how he measures time- in good days and bad ones. “I’ve been having a lot of those, recently.”

“You’ve been working hard.”

“I want to go back to normal,” Kallus mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m sick of being weak. I’m tired.” He smiles at Zeb, his lips thin and pursed. “I’m done.”

“Alex.” Zeb is imploring.”How could you think you’re weak?”

“Because I can’t walk down the damned hallway!” Kallus scoffs. “Because I have gone through all this suffering and I am not better! And all I wish is that it would end!”

“That makes you weak, does it?”

“It doesn’t make me strong, Garazeb. Not the way you think I am.”

The Lasat next to him snorts. “Kal, I have seen you walk through hell and back-”

“That doesn’t make-”

“- I know how strong you are,” Zeb finishes, talking over him. “Do you trust me?”

Kallus blanches, his heart pounding. “Of course.”

“Then believe me when I say you’re strong.”

“I’ve never seen it that way.”

The words are nearly inaudible. It’s a shamefaced confession, and Zeb stares at him with wide eyes, taking both of Alexsandr’s hands in his.

“Just because I survived doesn’t mean I’m a martyr, Zeb. Or some inspiration to look up to.”

“That’s half of one of the many reasons I care for you,” Zeb whispers, his voice so, so low. “Not because you’ve managed to survive, but because of how determined you are. It’s the stupid face you make when you’re concentrating and the way your voice gets all high when you tell me about how fine and capable you are.” Zeb chuckles, and Kallus is very acutely aware that Zeb is sitting so close to him that their thighs are touching. “You’ve always been so damn stubborn.”

“You like that about me?” Some alarmed voice in Alexsandr’s head warns him that this is barely tangential to the topic at hand.

“Yeah.” Zeb’s ears twitch, and he drops his eyes from Kallus’ wondrous stare. “Even if it pisses me off.”

“I know it does.”

“Yeah,” Zeb growls, then he deflates as he sighs. “I’ve always known that about you. Even when you were trying to kill me.” He gestures to Kallus, to his brace and cane. “Seeing you recover is another way you’re proving this to me. Your absurd relentlessness. And your strength.” He glowers at Kallus when he says the last word, as if daring him to object. “You’ve always had that.”

“Someone better would have handled it with grace.”

“Maybe.” Zeb shrugs. “You’re tough, not a saint.”

“Thank you, Garazeb.”

Zeb rolls his eyes, shoving against Kallus’ shoulder gently. “Whatever.” He clears his throat. “Maybe all this made you stronger. I don’t care if you get back to normal, or whatever you’ve dreamed up for yourself. I only want you to be happy with where you were.”

“And go to physical therapy.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“Right.”

Zeb grins. “By the way, if you didn’t want the hurt from your serious injury to go away, then you’re twice as big of an idiot as I thought you were. I have no idea what else you expected.”

“I expected for it to last a few weeks. Not the rest of my life.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wishing for that.” Zeb looks up at the trees, and Kallus thinks of a burning world, razed to the ground by the Empire. Zeb didn’t come away from Lasan unscathed, he knows. “Whatever happens though, here you are, Kal. Even if all you’ve done is survive.”

Alexsandr reaches out for Zeb’s hand, and his friend takes it. Zeb’s words are muddled with affection and friendship and respect. The person Zeb describes sounds like someone Kallus can appreciate. Somebody with an iron will and a conviction for the right kind of things. Somebody worthy of love

 That night, Kallus cannot rest. He wanders the halls, on a dreadfully familiar path- the one Zeb takes him on when Kallus has to stretch out his leg. His feet carry him into the cool night air, his cane thumping against the stone after every uneven step.

Kallus searches for privacy, but he cannot make it far outside the base. There are still lights blinking from the hangars and a quiet bustle of nightlife shows that the base is still busy, but Kallus staggers along as far as he can and settles on a log under the cover of some trees.

“Can’t sleep?”

Alexsandr jumps, then he squints in the dark. Some 30 feet away is Kanan Jarrus, sitting on the forest floor with his legs folded beneath him. He appears to be meditating; his shoulder pauldrons and mask are off, and he sounds relaxed.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Kallus calls. He fumbles with his cane and readies himself to stand; he’s still slightly out of breath and now he has nowhere to go.

“No.” Kanan stands instead and approaches Kallus, nimbly stepping over branches and rocks. Kallus stares up at the blind Jedi, then averts his gaze when Kanan takes a seat next to him.

They sit together in silence. Kallus doesn’t mind the company very much; he fiddles with his hands and does his best to ignore the aching in his leg.

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?” Kanan says finally. He turns to Kallus expectantly.

Kallus gives a nervous chuckle. “What is?”

“Healing.” Kanan opens his hands as if he’s referring to the whole jungle, instead. “Even with the people who love you at your side.”

Kallus opens his mouth to protest- he’s not sure who loves him, even if a few people come to mind- but the depth of Kanan’s words hit him a moment later.

“I don’t-” Kallus struggles for the right words. “I don’t believe I’m alone.”

Kanan nods slowly. “I had Hera with me every step of the way. She’s the most understanding, caring person I know.” Then, Kanan shrugs. “But it was impossible for her to understand what it was like, no matter how hard she tried. It was lonely.”

“Yes,” Kallus says slowly, exhaling.  “Even- even-”

“Zeb doesn’t understand?” He can hear the humor in Kanan’s voice, although Kallus cannot piece together why Kanan would be amused. “I think that’d be impossible unless he’d been through it, too.”

“Do you know anyone who did?”

Kanan shakes his head. “Not quite.” He smiles, and again, Kallus can’t comprehend why. “I had to find solace in other places.”

“Do you think you’re on the other side?”

“Of recovery?” Kallus inclines his head. “Yes. It’s different now.” Kanan’s smile becomes wistful. “But there’s no going back.”

“You made it through.”

“I did. And you will too. In time.”

“I want it to be over.” The confession falls from Kallus’ lips before he can help it. “I’m so tired of being in pain.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think it will ever pass.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then…” Kallus sighs. “Then I move forward with it, anyway.”

There’s no other choice. He will stay with the rebels until the end, and he will do so however he can. He could lose his leg tonight or he could wake up entirely healed tomorrow morning. Either way, there will be little change to his plans.

“I thought you’d say that.” Kanan rests his hand on Kallus’ knee. “It gets easier.”

“I know.” It has already. Maybe Zeb is right. Maybe he is strong because of what he has survived, and maybe there’s truth to Kanan’s words, too. 

“I think you’ll find someone who makes it less lonely. I believe you’ll find yourself on the other side.”

Kallus bows his head in acknowledgment, suddenly exhausted. “Zeb will be yours again, once we get back from Lothal.” Kanan’s seriousness disappears, and Kallus knows the moment has passed. He can’t help that the corners of his lips are quirking up, and Kanan seems to both know and enjoy this fact.

“You leave soon?” The thought is bittersweet; the Lothal rebels returning home again, and Zeb will leave his side.

“Three rotations.” Kanan answers. His tone has become heavy again, but the Jedi does not sound afraid.

“I wish you luck.”

The earliest sign of civilization is a healed femur.

[mysweetestcreature]

Tomorrow Never Knows (President!Harry) Chapter 1: Had Me from Hello

(Banner by the wonderful noblewomankat <3)

***

Masterlist

***

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

        The car parks right at the entrance of the school, where some students are gathered around making conversation and trying to out-do the other in who’s had the most exotic vacation, while others swarm through the doors on a mission to get back into the flow of the semester. Harry eyes the building up and down from the window cautiously. Don’t get him wrong, he’s ecstatic to be attending Ashwood Prep this year, especially considering the fact he received a hefty amount of scholarship money when he had gotten accepted. It’s just that being the new kid at a K12 school might as well be like getting thrown into open water when all one knows is how to backstroke. 

        “I could drive around the block again, if you’d like?” Harry snorts at the suggestion as he turns back to his mum. “I can just feel anxiety coming off your aura,” she adds, circling her hand just around the side of his head. Over the last few months, she’s been very interested in trying to read his aura, whatever that means (he isn’t sure how this obsession started, but he’ll admit that she’s getting quite good).

        “Mum...” he whines, shrinking further into the leather of his seat as he covers his face from any overly curious eyes that may find him and his mother a little too interesting. 

        Anne feigns offense and lets out a dramatic huff. “Not even a day in high school, and he’s already ashamed to be seen with me.” 

        Both remain silent for the time being, and only the chatter from outside fills the void of unsaid between them. It’s when Harry takes the chance and subtly tries to take a peek at her from the corner of his eye, does he find her doing the exact same. They burst into giggles, and Harry shakes his head as he sits up. Once he’s recovered, his gaze falls back towards the window, where the number of students has decreased in just a matter of minutes. 

        “’m nervous,” he admits despondently a few seconds later. 

        A hand falls over his, squeezing it tight as its thumb pads over his skin to calm him. “And that’s completely normal, but, darling –– it’s going to be alright. I know this because I know you, and you’re never one to back down. Besides, I think you look quite handsome in your uniform.” He’s dressed in black dress pants topped off with a white polo, a cool-toned dark blue cardigan and a black tie with school’s emblem printed in the middle. 

        As Harry lets the rest of Anne’s words sink in, he thinks about how he’d been in this position not even two years ago. A year and eight months ago, to be exact, he’d moved from his childhood home in Holmes Chapel in England to New Jersey. Anne had received a stellar job opportunity as marketing head at a consumer goods company, and Harry and his sister, Gemma, felt like that had to support her in this new chapter of her life. Unfortunately, that included leaving behind their friends, family, and all that they’ve ever known. So, in mid-January, he’d been the new kid to insert himself into the seventh-grade at JW Middle School. For the most part, everyone in his year had been kind enough, sans those few jerks who made fun of the way he talked and yelled ‘bloody hell’ whenever they’d see him in the halls or at lunch, but even that only lasted for a month. Other than that, he felt as though he’d really tried to make the best out of their situation.

        Now here he is again, in nearly an identical position as the last. It’s a lot better now, he supposes. For starters, he’s starting school on the first day, so he’s sure there are going to be at least a dozen new students like him. By now, he’s also used to living in Jersey (loves it, his mum would say), even knows all the best diners within a thirty-mile radius of his house and where to get the freshest bagels on a Saturday morning. 

        The eighth grade had even been immensely enjoyable for him, he had made a lot of friends, had his first kiss, and he even graduated salutatorian of the class, only falling a thousandth of a decimal behind Andrea Chung. 

        “You know what? You’re right, mum. I can so do this,” he affirms himself. 

        “Hey, I didn’t say to be cocky,” Anne teases, pinching his cheeks before she unlocks the doors. “Now, get out of my car. I have a meeting in less than an hour, and I still need to stop for coffee. Love you!” 

        Harry lets his feet fall onto the sidewalk toes first, and pulls the straps of his backpack over his shoulders. Ashwood Prep looks even bigger now that he’s stood on the ground. Everyone is dressed in their uniforms, but of course there are those who obviously chose to customize theirs. He looks to his left, and swallows hard as Anne’s Mercedes merges onto the main road. “This is it,” he tells himself. This is where he’ll be spending the next four years of his life. 

        Suddenly, he feels something knock into his back, causing him to stumble a few steps forward. 

        “Oof!” 

        Before he can catch a glimpse and ask if whoever it was is okay, a figure manages to dodge his eyes as she speeds off up the stairs. 

        “I’m so sorry!” the girl yells back at him, but all he can really make out is the side of her face and a silver and pink checkered scrunchie that holds her hair back in a half do style. “But I have to get these ready before Pattern A or else Mr. N is totally gonna be on my back about it!” Her echo sounds panicked as she disappears into the building, and even the students still remaining towards the entrance part a path for her to pass. 

        “You’re fine!” he shouts after her. 

***

        “You’ll find that your locker assignments and schedules are laid out for you in alphabetical order,” the homeroom teacher, Mr. Bartolome says in his most unenthusiastic tone. “If you have any questions...ask each other.” Harry heads towards the back in search of his last name, until he finds it at a desk right by the window, its position is in perfect view of the entire room. There are some small things he notices, like how the walls have barely a scratch on them and how the floors are so we'll polished that even the slightest of movements elicits a squeak.

        Just as he takes his seat, a voice booms from beside him. “Excuse me!” His head leads the rest of his body as he pivots on his heel. A girl with magnificent auburn hair tied back in a high ponytail and freckles that dance across her face almost perfectly stares inquisitively at him. “You’re new, right? I’m Zoey” 

        “Oh, uh...yeah. I’m Harry,” he replies with a polite nod. As he sits down, he can feel Zoey’s eyes scan him up and down. 

        “Wait!” she gasps, her mouth falling open. “Are you...are you from England?” She looks at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to say that he’s related to the Queen or Churchill or something just as outrageous as that.

        He nods before speaking. “Cheshire,” he replies, but she stares at him blankly. “It’s North from London.” 

        “Oh,” she tries to hide her disappointment. “Well, if you need help with anything, you can always ask me.” 

        “Thanks,” he offers her a tight-lipped grin. She sends him a wink in return before turning to her friend seated to her other side.

        Harry takes the opportunity to look down at the gridded schedule laid out before him. Thank god he’d looked over his schedule ahead a time when it was posted online because it had taken him about an hour to fully comprehend, and if he’s being honest, Mr. Bartolome kind of scares him. The school works on a 6-day cycle, and each class is referred to as a ‘pattern’ rather than a ‘period’. Each day, one subject drops, and the one that had dropped the day before is added in at the beginning. He looks up at the board, where Mr. Bartolome has written an outline of how today is going to work out. Day 1, it says in green marker, followed by the order of classes. Harry looks back down at his schedule, and his eyes linger on his Pattern A. 

***

        His first class of the day just happens to be his favorite subject. Harry isn’t sure what it is, but he loves reading and learning about the past and drawing maps of how the past has contributed and affected the present. It might be because his grandad had been a university history professor at Oxford and would tell Harry tales from World War 2 in place of the usual bedtime stores (that’s not to say that Harry isn’t well versed in fairytales, of course). 

        Luckily there hadn’t been assigned seating, so Harry was able to snag a table in the third row when he had first come in. The seats are now slowly filling up as the rest of the class staggers in a few tired looking students at a time, and the teacher makes it a point to note that it’s the first day...the first class of the day nonetheless! Harry recognizes a few from homeroom, like the boy who had dared asked Mr. Bartolome a question, and Zoey, who flirtatiously waves at him with before being forced into the back by a few of her friends. 

        Their teacher pushes out of his chair and heads to the whiteboard. He takes a dry erase marker in his hand, and in big letters writes what looks to be his name, but Harry can barely make it out without squinting his eyes.  

        “Welcome to US History Honors!” he exclaims. “As I’ve just written in my embarrisingly horrendous handwriting...which is why we’re definitely using PowerPoint, so I don’t get a billion emails about what’s written, don’t worry...I’m Mr. Noone!” 

        Mr. Noone walks over to the door, but just as he’s about to shut it to start the lesson, someone calls out to him from the hall. “Wait! I’m here, I’m here!” Everyone watches as the elderly man lets out a knowing sigh, shoulders falling in defeat, but it’s followed by a genuine chuckle as the final student speeds into the room. 

        “Sorry, Mr. N!” she says, still trying to catch her breath. Harry immediately eyes the same pink and grey scrunchie that had knocked into him earlier. “But I had to wait for these to cool before packing them up or else all the sugar would fall off!” In her hands is a medium-sized Tupperware, and he recognizes the faint yet alluring scent of freshly baked treats.

        “Earl grey short bread?” Mr. Noone cocks a brow at her as he finally shuts the door. “I don’t accept tardiness for just any average cookie.”

        The girl shakes her head animatedly. “I’m insulted that you even have to ask that question!” Mr. Noone strolls towards his desk with his hands behind his back, then peaks over the top of the container. A pleased expression dances across his face as his fingers fish for a scrumptious cookie to bite in to, and he’s even more ecstatic as the shortbread touches his palate. 

        “You did good, kid. Now find a seat before I write you up for loitering,” he threatens lightly, and the girl lets out a little huff as she turns around.  

        And that’s when Harry finally sees her face. 

        His stomach flips over, and he’s left in that awkward position of will he or won’t he see this morning’s breakfast again (and he’d eaten a hefty meal). Her eyes have a glimmer to them, like a star on top of a Christmas tree or better yet, the real ones he watches from his bedroom window when he can’t fall asleep. He’s so in awe that he stops breathing when those sparkling eyes land on the empty seat right beside him. Whatever amusement he’d been feeling when he’d first sat down is now replaced with something else. It’s like heat that creeps up to his neck originating from the base of his spine. 

        The closer she gets, the sweatier his palms become, so bad that he has trouble keeping his pen firm in his grasp. “Hi, I’m Y/n!” she says as she stops in front of him, a warm smile embedded on her lips and a warmth that seems to radiate off her so naturally. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here?” 

        “Y-yeah, I mean, no! I mean, of course. It’s...it’s all yours.” What was that?! Jesus Christ, Harry. It’s like you’ve never talked to a girl before! She giggles as he trips over his words, but thanks him graciously before sliding into the seat and getting herself comfortable. He tenses at her presence being so close to him and he couldn’t tell you why. “Harry,” he blurts out like vomit. 

        “What?” She looks up from digging through her bag.

        He bites on the inside of his cheek, suddenly feeling conscious under this self-imposed pressure. “My name’s Harry,” and he shyly repeats before turning back to the board.

        Y/n tilts her head at him, and the soft smile returns to her face. “Nice to meet you, Harry.” 

        At that, he’s finally able to breathe normally. He steals a couple glances at her as she sets everything down on their table, and he notices how her lips quirk to the side as she sets everything down with such precision. A printed Beatles-themed pencil case catches his eye, and he smiles to himself as he thinks fondly to all the times his grandad had played their records over and over. 

        “I love the Beatles,” he says almost as a whisper, but she picks up on it and perks up immediately. 

        “They’re my favorite band and all I listen to most days.” She picks up the pouch and twirls it in her hands. “My dad brought this back when he visited London a few years ago. I’ve never been, but hopefully one day!” There’s hope in her voice as she stares sheepishly at the print.

        “Alright!” Their conversation is cut short as Mr. Noone chews up his last bit of cookie. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s start class!” A projection screen starts to pull down over the whiteboard, followed by a slowly brightening white light. “While we’re waiting for this to load, I want you to take a good look at who you’re sitting next to because you’ll be partnering up for various projects and presentations over the course of the year.” 

***

        After class, Harry sits back as he watches a bulk of his classmates file out of the room en route to their next destination. As their voices carry out into the halls, it’s just him and a few others left, including Y/n, who appears to be taking her sweet time packing everything up in her bag.   

        “So,” the “o” carries out longer than he’d anticipated. He scratches the back of his neck as he searches for something, anything, he can say to her, so she doesn’t think he’s a complete and utter fool for not being able to speak without fumbling over his own tongue. “I’m not really sure where my next class is.” 

        “Oh!” Her eyes grow wide as she zips up her backpack. “I could help you, if you’d like?” And gosh, does his chest pound when she leans in close and takes a peek at his schedule in front of him on the table. “You’re actually just on the second floor!” she exclaims, pointing up towards the ceiling. “I’m like ninety-seven percent sure it’s the third door on the right if you take the stairs right outside this room.” 

        Harry takes a quick mental note of her instructions before pushing out of his chair. “Thank you,” he starts, and both of them head towards the door, with her leading the way.

        Just as she takes one step outside, she suddenly turns around, and Harry nearly crashes into her. “I’ll be back for my Tupperware, Mr. N! There’s no way I’m letting you swipe another one from under my nose!” The old man waves her off and mutters something under his breath that Harry thinks might have been a “whatever you say”. Y/n looks up at him, and signals for them to continue into the hall. 

        “He’s a real sweetheart,” she says as they climb up the stairs.  

        “Who?” 

        “Mr. Noone,” she explains. “I think you’ll really like him! His classes are pretty chill for the most part and he’s super understanding, too. Like last year I had the flu for about a week and a half since my brother had gotten me sick because his whole kindergarten class had come down with for some strange reason, and Mr. N was the only teacher who didn’t have me make up any work.” 

        “Yeah?” he smiles at her. 

        She promptly shakes her head in confirmation. “Yeah! He just gave me this mini test with all the material I’d missed, and he even gave me a study guide to study off to help me with it!” Her face falls into a small frown when they stop in front Harry’s next class. “Oh, well I guess this is you.” She digs her foot into the marbled floor as she peeks into the room. “It was nice talking to you, Harry! I’ll see you around!” she says with a more upbeat tone. 

        “Bye, and thanks again for helping me get to class. It probably cut down the anxiety time by at least two minutes,” he confesses, a slight blush spreading around the area of his nose. She smiles before heading her own way, and he doesn’t know why he feels this sudden decline in his mood as she grows further and further. He just stands there, watching her walk down the corridor while the rest of the students laze into the classroom. Just as he’s about to head in, he chances one last look in her direction, and it’s just in time see her looking over her shoulder. 

***

        Harry’s managed to make himself a new friend in Debate class. His name is Max, and he’d been a transfer student from JW the year before Harry had started attending. They bonded over that, as well as a mutual love for movies made during the Classical Hollywood period (they’ve even made plans to watch a Hitchcock film this weekend), and even how they live in the same neighborhood –– a few streets apart, to be more specific!

        “I think it’s cool that you have an accent,” Max says to him as they stop at Harry’s locker before heading to lunch. Harry empties out his books from his first three classes. It’s no wonder his back had been aching, he’d forgotten to take out his US Politics textbook, and he doesn’t even have that class today. He’d had a free (also with Max) before this, and he’d managed to finish up all the readings and homework for history and biology that are all due tomorrow. He likes to be efficient with his time, especially when the teachers start putting on a heftier workload. “Did you see how all those girls freaked when you introduced yourself? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it!”

        “Everyone has an accent, mate. It’s just mine sounds a lot different from yours.” Everyone in Debate had freaked over the way he spoke, and as Max had pointed out, it had garnered a lot of attention from some of the girls in class. 

        “No need to get all technical with me. You have a gift, my friend. Use it wisely.” Harry shuts his locker, and the two continue towards the cafeteria. This morning, Anne had packed him his favorite roast beef and swiss on rye, a tradition on the first day of school that they’ve kept since he was small. Although, Max had been going on about how amazing the food here was, which is hard to believe that any school lunch can be anything but subpar, so he may have to test that out, as well. On the way there, they turn into a hallway, and are immediately hit with a sweet-smelling aroma of cinnamon and brown sugar.

        Harry stops just outside the door, humming happily to himself as he pictures whatever magic is happening on the other side. “Kitchen?” He points in its direction with his thumb.

        “Home economics room,” his friend smirks. “A friend spends a hell of a lot of time in there. She’s a really good baker, I can’t even count how many of her lemon bars I’ve had since I started going here.” 

***

        Y/n is late for lunch, but it’s really not her fault! She got caught up in decorating a cake with fondant roses and fancy piping that she been working on all period long because she wanted to impress Miss Genevra with a new technique that she had learned at a baking seminar she’d taken over the summer. And it turned out nearly perfect (there was one flower that looked a tad lopsided, but only Y/n fussed over it), and the flavor was just as impressive. 

        All that aside, she now only has about ten minutes left to buy lunch and scarf it all down before her Pattern J starts, and she still has to stop by her locker to get her art kit and sketchbook, not to mention she has to make time to hound Mr. N for her Tupperware back, or else her dad will throw another fit. 

        So, she quickly grabs a Snapple and a basket of chicken tenders from the hot rack, then brings it all to the cashier. A woman, about forty years old sits on her stool, and smiles at Y/n as she approaches. “Hi, Layla!” Y/n greets her, handing her over a crisp ten-dollar bill. “How was your trip to Ecuador? I’m sure Benny and Sammy loved it!” Benny and Sammy are Layla’s twin boys that Y/n babysits from time to time when Layla and her partner go out for a date night. They’re about her brother’s age, so Mason is always so happy when she brings him along to their house for an impromptu playdate. 

        Layla smiles, handing back her change of four dollars and fifty cents. “They did! Thanks for asking, sweetheart.” She stares down at her watch, then gives the young girl a knowing look. “Now you better finish that up before your next class. I think I saw Maxxie sitting somewhere in the back.”

        “Oh, thanks for the heads up! And by the way...” Y/n looks into her bag and pulls out a stack of fudge bars neatly wrapped in tin foil. “The boys’ favorite! Made fresh today.”  

        “Ah! You’re just an angel, aren’t you?” Layla gushes before sending her on her way. 

        Y/n searches for Maxxie’s mop of dirty blonde hair as she maneuvers around all the busy tables. They’d met a few years ago, and she considers him to be one of her best friends. He’d texted her earlier saying he’d be bringing a friend to sit with them at lunch, and that he was totally cute and had a smile that would surely make her weak at the knees. Think Zach Anderson, but 100x better, his message had read. She smiles widely when she sees him. 

        “So, last night I saw this movie made in like the 40s and I totally got this ince-” She cover his eyes with her hands and does her best to bite back the erupting giggles.

        “Guess who?” 

        “Well, you smell strongly of vanilla and...” He takes a long whiff through his nose. “...and...is that orange zest?”

        “Lemon, but close enough, I guess.” Y/n takes the empty seat on his right. Maxxie leans in for a hug, and only then does she notice the familiar company. 

        “Hey, you! I was beginning to think you’d drowned in a tub of frosting or something,” he jokes, picking something out of her hair before settling back. He turns to his left. “This is-”

        “Harry,” she says it like it’s a dream. Gosh! When she’d met him earlier, she did everything she could to stay with it, when all she really wanted to do was scream into a pillow about how unrealistically green his eyes are. Instead, she thinks she might have overshared some details with a complete stranger because regardless of how cute she thinks he is –– and that’s very much –– she doesn’t know one thing about him besides his name. 

        “Y/n, hi,” Harry replies just as whimsically. They hold eye contact for a while, but as Y/n feels the heat begin to rise from her neck to her cheeks, she soon turns away and begins to pick at her chicken, while Harry bites his lips inward and looks down into his lap to check his phone. 

        The boy in between them looks back and forth between the two. His eyebrows rise to his forehead and his mouth parts slightly in confusion. 

        “So... I’m guessing you’ve met?”

***

[lovecraftian-druid]

Pactborn VI

“You ready to do some treasure hunting today, kiddo?” 

K’Sirr’s voice broke Ka’l’s concentration as she stared absentmindedly at a pod of blue whales swimming along the surface of the Rocsanee Ocean, their blowholes spewing water like great geysers.

Ka’l never fully understood the liking K’Sirr had taken to her. Perhaps it had to do with feeling responsible for her after inviting her to join his crew; or maybe it was because she was so much younger than any of his other shipmen; or possibly that he felt a kinship based on their mutual love for sailing; some even speculated that it was because of her relation to a famous admiral of the Felgran Fleet. Whatever the case, it was no surprise to the rest of the crew when Ka’l quickly rose through the ranks. It was even less surprising when K’Sirr - after only seven months aboard the Sea Wolf - invited her along on a Trover quest, a type of hunt for great treasure hoards. Lore of these massive bounties were usually only learned about within the Trovers Guild, a group of pirates whose life’s work was to discover legendary riches and wondrous items. 

The young pirate pocketed her compass as she made her way to the side of the ship that housed the utility boats: there, two other Trovers perched on crates, preparing for the dive ahead of them. One of them - a blue dragonborn sorcerer by the name of Zandynn - sat cutting a small reed into pieces in preparation for a ritual spell while the other (Candid, a roguish tiefling) fitted her many daggers into her belt. As K’Sirr arrived on the scene, a lumpy roughspun sack clutched tightly in one hand, he looked expectantly at Ka’l: “Aren’t you missing something?” He smiled a toothy grin as he lifted the weighted bag in his hand, and Ka’l realized that the others also had similar sacks waiting on the deck next to their feet.

“Oh, uh, no, I didn’t think I’d need one - I’m a pretty strong swimmer,” Ka’l stammered, trying her best to speak with confidence.

The three of them chuckled wryly before Zandynn spoke: “Little lady, the way we’re traveling, you won’t need to swim.”

“It’s Ka’l,” K’Sirr corrected him with a sidelong glance, “she prefers Ka’l, so that’s what you can call her.” Zandynn rolled his eyes as he commenced his casting of the ritual spell, and K’Sirr turned his focus back to Ka’l, winking at her as he lifted the lid of a nearby barrel to retrieve one more bag that - as she learned upon inspecting it - was filled with a single large rock. He handed it to her and explained, “You’ll tie this to your waist to keep your body from trying to float back up to the surface.”

Ka’l gave a nod of understanding and began tying off a neat square knot about her mid-drift while Zandynn finished his incantations. She wasn’t expecting the odd sensation of the set of arcane gills that suddenly formed along the sides of her neck as he finished the casting of the spell with a somatic flourish, and it took her a moment to realize that she could still breathe air normally as she ran her fingers over the foreign bodily addition. Her eyes widened as she turned to face Zandynn: “this is amazing!” she gushed, genuinely.

K’Sirr smiled proudly and stepped to the edge of the ship, motioning for the dinghy to be run out for the small group. “With that, I believe we should be ready to depart - Gahjeel, you’re in command while I’m away!” he hollered up to the black tabaxi as he lept gracefully into the small boat. Ka’l and the others followed, and as they rowed out towards some shoals, Ka’l continued to play with her strange new gills.

The two shipmates carried on a lighthearted conversation as Ka’l watched K’Sirr, his eyes pressed shut in concentration as he twirled a forked twig around with his thumb and forefinger, all the while humming a tune under his breath. Ka’l always marveled at the use of magic and was so impressed by K’Sirr and those with whom he associated: she hoped to one day be able to achieve the same arcane wonders these folks were able to accomplish.

Lost in thought over what it must be like to cast such incredible magic, Ka’l jumped a little when K’Sirr declared loudly, “Here! Stop!”

The rare and elusive Necklace of Fireballs: K’Sirr and his crew had been seeking this treasure for the last few months now, since before Ka’l had joined the Sea Wolf. Now, thanks to a reliable tip and a handy divination spell, they were merely a dive away from having it within their grasp.

The others situated their things securely in the small boat as Ka'l dropped the anchor and peered down into the waters below: the shallows afforded her a view of what looked to be large shoals of multicolored coral growing all shapes and sizes. The dinghy began to rock a little, and Ka'l turned to see the others holding their stone-filled bags, ready to take the plunge. Ka'l followed suit, gathering up the rough sack in her arms.

"Are we ready?" K'Sirr asked, making brief eye contact with each member. Nods gave him the affirmation he needed, and he looked at Ka'l with an ornery twinkle in his eye as he patted her on the back. "After you, my dear."

Eager to impress her captain and establish some credibility among her crew, Ka'l scrambled to her feet in the wobbly boat as it swayed unsteadily. Without hesitation, she pulled the stone close to her chest and made an attempt at jumping overboard - this exciting milestone quickly developed into a bit of an embarrassing one though as her toe caught the lip of the dinghy, throwing the boat off-balance (to the gasping surprise of the others) and sending her splashing torso-first against the surface of the water before sinking deeper, her stone having knocked some of the wind from her now-waterbreathing lungs.

As bubbles floated with urgency from her mouth rising rapidly towards the light of day above, Ka'l opened her eyes to behold the beautiful underwater world she had just entered: schools of fish flitted in and out of reef croppings while small crustaceans skimmed the currents for tasty food particles; a neon-colored parrotfish crunched its hard beak down on some faded coral as a eel lunged from within its kelpy hiding place to catch its prey.

Enraptured by this tropical wonderland, she took a moment to explore the tiny reef. It wasn't until she felt something aggressively ram into her followed by a sharp, piercing pain that she realized something was wrong - as the water around her plumed with crimson clouds of her own blood, Ka'l twisted at her hips to find her thigh locked down upon by the jaws of a hungry tiger shark, seemingly drawn by the sound of her loud dive. More bubbles escaped her mouth as she tried to scream for help, flailing violently in an attempt to tear herself free of its razor-sharp teeth. With her hands extended before her, pushing with all her might against the creature's sandpaper-like snout, Ka'l felt a surge of arcane power course through her panicked body. 

Something happened in that moment of terror: something Ka’l would ever forget, something that would change her life forever. As she felt her body begin to go into shock, the blood pumping loud within her ears, two golden slitted eyes flashed within her mind, sending her body into overdrive. With her hand pressed against the shark’s face, her eyes shot open again as her hand released an unbridled beam of crackling turquoise energy: as the eldritch blast struck the creature in the face, it sent a shock wave of force rippling through the water between them, swirling the streams of bloodied water billowing through the reef. 

The shark - surprised and perturbed - released its hold on Ka’l as it felt itself pushed back a bit from the force; however, this was not enough to frighten it away. With resolved bloodlust, the shark circled back for another attack. Her head still swimming with adrenaline, confusion, and blood loss, Ka’l looked on in absolute horror as the massive beast swam hard in her direction. As the rock tied about her waist began to sink her like a stone, she was able to see the familiar form of her captain standing at the bottom of the shoal’s sandy floor - with one hand extended, she watched as K’Sirr pointed up at the tiger shark and conjured a great sphere of yellow gas right in front of its path. The shark, writhing and reeling as the stinking cloud’s poison assaulted its hypersensitive sense of smell, began thrashing in the water, mingling the red of the blood with the yellow of the gas in a beautiful disaster of brilliant orange for a moment before it turned and swam off at full speed. 

Taking the opportunity to act without risk of attack, K’Sirr cut the rope that tethered his weight and swam with haste towards Ka’l. Pulling her into his arms, he pressed his calico hand firmly against her leg, humming a tender ballad as he comforted her. Ka’l felt the warmth return to her body as the wound slowly closed up. As her eyes regained focus, she tried her best to form the words “thank you” through the water.

Pointing to the noxious cloud of stench that was beginning to thin as the sea cycled the current about, K’Sirr did his best to communicate to her that time was of the essence. 

Ka’l scanned the watery depths for Zandynn and Candid: she saw them striding towards them, kicking up small bits of sand as they moved. Candid appeared to be sheathing two of her daggers as they walked - it looked as though they had not fully escaped without an encounter of their own. 

K’Sirr waved them closer, pulling the forked twig from his pocket and casting his locating spell once more after fetching his weight stone. Like a divining rod moving in response to hidden water, K’Sirr concentrated as his material component began leading him in the direction of his prize. Ka’l and the others followed closely, looking about in all directions out of a well-founded fear for what else might be lurking in the waters around them. 

After only a minute, Ka’l noticed that K’Sirr’s pace had quickened as he followed the path bestowed by his spell. Nearly beelining towards an embankment of fuchsia coralline, K’Sirr stashed his component and dropped to all fours, digging in the silty sand at the base of the coral and fan-like seaweeds. Ka’l joined in, shoulder to shoulder with him as she dug. Dirt and soggy debris littered the water around them as they clawed at the loose ground while Candid and Zandynn stood watch like sentinels. 

Ka’l felt the contagious excitement of the hunt creep up on her as they scooped more and more sand aside - tossing a glance in his direction, she saw the boyish look of absolute joy on K’Sirr’s face as he dug for the long-awaited treasure. Plunging her cupped hands into the granulated floor with renewed enthusiasm, she felt her nails scrape against something hard and metallic. She paused, her head spinning like a swivel to lock dilated eyes with K’Sirr in unspoken amazement. Sinking their fists deep into the sand, they groped about to find a pair of round anchor-chainlink handles. With a few struggled heaves, Ka’l helped K’Sirr dislodge the chest from beneath the seafloor. 

Stepping forward from his post, Zandynn put his face close to the lock that dangled from the chest, its metal crusty with rust and barnacles, as he spoke a muffled incantation. At the last punctuation of the spell, the padlock slid down, unlocked, as it dangled loose at the front of the chest. Wiggling its corroded loop free, K’Sirr slowly and almost reverently lifted the lid of the iron trunk.

Ka’l had never seen so much gold in all her life. 

Candid and Zandynn moved in, discarding the stones from their sacks and replacing them instead with fistfuls of coins, while K’Sirr - unconcerned with the monetary treasure - sifted through the riches for his trophy. Finding the necklace, he held it up to his own chest for a moment as if to mockingly model it to Ka’l as he brimmed with exuberance from ear to ear. He delicately draped the piece of jewelry into his chest pocket (careful not to jostle its eight magma-colored beads too roughly) before reaching back into the iron box to retrieve a single ruby gemstone along with a simple gold chain, its middle links slightly damaged. Pulling two lodestones from his pouch, his wild jade-colored eyes met Ka’l’s as he touched the stones against the chain and the gem, causing them to fuse into one. 

With a circular motion of his index finger, K’Sirr had Ka’l turn around so that he could gift her his creation: a beautiful maang tikka which he helped fit to her forehead. Ka’l pawed at the piece of jewelry - she wasn’t usually much for wearing any sort of ornamentation, but she could sense already that this item would hold much sentimental value to her for years to come. 

At long last pleased with his find, K’Sirr motioned for the group to wrap up their adventure. Excited to return with her own plunder, Ka’l emptied her bag of its rock as well and quickly shoveled the remaining gold and gemstones into the woven sack. Zandynn and Candid gave her a pat on the back and a sincere thumbs-up as they tied off the openings of their stuffed bags.

With a hard push off the ground and several propelling kicks, Ka’l swam upwards towards the glistening fractal rays of sunlight; and for the first time since joining the crew, she finally felt like she belonged.

=============================================================

Sorry for the delay in posting: I had a terrible case of the flu last week and just COULDN’T.

If you enjoyed this chapter of Ka’l Bahriin’s story, please be sure to read the previous five chapters of her series, Pactborn.

Ye Olde Taglist: @serenewrites​, @mayvinwrites​

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, send me a message. :)

[beybladeimagines]

How would the All Starz comfort an s/o who's feeling worthless from depression and being crushed from their too high self-expectations? (If you're wondering how I'm doing, I'm doing fine! I have support but sometimes it's easy to slip back into that way of thinking, you know? Keep up the good work!)

Mod Note: I’m so sorry I just now got to this, but thanks so much for your support and being an angel. I also appreciate you telling me that you’re okay, because I did low-key panic. But I love you and hope you continue to find happiness in the new year. 

MAX: Despite his cheerful exterior, Max knows the feeling of depression all too well. The feeling arrived the moment his mom left him and his stuck with him for years. It even seemed to escalate when he realized just how much he had to do to get his moms eyes back on him. Meeting expectations, especially hers, was pretty rough. Although much time has passed and he’s found ways to cope, it does arrive in waves and he’d never wish the feeling on anyone. So, when he realizes that his partner is experiencing the same thing, he can’t help but internally corrode. I just imagine him with his arms out, approaching his partner, and slowly bringing them to his chest. He gets it, so he finds himself holding the other tighter and tighter. He hopes that all of his love sinks right into their skin and finds a way into their heart. He isn’t exactly sure who made them feel that way, but he wants them to know just how unbelievably happy they’ve managed to make him. He knows that sometimes, we as people tend to prioritize others in our lives and their views of us hold a tremendous weight… But he also knows that validation from someone else can really reassure you that you’re doing the right thing. Upon holding his partner, I can see him kneeling before them, making sure that their eyes are on him as he speaks. If they’re crying, he’s there to wipe away those tears and smile while praising the fuck out of them. He’d bring up significant stories of their time together - all the moments in which his partner managed to change his perspective, or made him happy, or motivated him. He wants the other to know just how powerful they really are. He never even had expectations for them, but somehow they managed to make a profound impact on his life so effortlessly. Max would give it his all to remind his partner of their worth. It’d be a very memorable and emotionally intimate experience.

MICHAEL: His first instinct is to get angry, but never at his partner. Michael is truly a free spirit and seldom commits to anything or anyone (except for his team). So, when he’s finally found someone that he’s so completely addicted to and enamored by, he treats their pain as if it’s his own. His partner becomes his everything - I mean literally, he elevates them. At first, he wouldn’t understand the source of their suffering. It’s an innocent thought - he just thinks their so perfect, how could anyone possibly think otherwise? You’ll have to excuse his behavior, because he’s never had to think about anyone other than himself. The first thing he’d ask his partner is, “who do I have to annihilate?” He’d probably reach for his bat too, as if assuming that someone else was responsible for making his better half feel that way (and that violence is the only way to address it). Although his outrage might appear concerning, he’d never do anything without their permission, but he’d try to explain his actions. In the heat of the moment, he’d end up spewing out every single reason as to why he loved his partner. And how he just can’t wrap his mind around people who can’t see the exact same perfect person he does.

However, Michael can empathize with not being able to meet expectations as well. After all, he couldn’t meet Judy’s expectations and didn’t get a chance to play in the championships. Of course that was devastating and he had to rely on his own ego to keep from feeling like an absolute loser or failure. He knows how broken he was, and he’d want to make sure his partner never experienced the same low as him. He’d most likely use that opportunity to open up to his partner. Upon explaining his feelings, he’d most likely add how suddenly Judy’s expectations meant nothing when he found his significant other. He managed to reevaluate his definition of success. It no longer looked like being the All American Hero. Success ended up looking like a stable relationship with his partner and as far as he was concerned, he got that. So, he’d ask his partner to think about those expectations and reexamine them. 

RICK: He usually struggles to display his honest affection outside of aggression, annoyance, and the occasional narcissism. However, Rick is actually empathetic and the perfect person to serve as an ear for his significant other. At first, he’d listen in silence and pay attention to the subtle ways in which their voice cracks and quivers, their pauses, the words they use, and so on… Rick is trying so hard to understand and pick up on every little detail that others would otherwise neglect. He knows just how far someone can sink thanks to depression - he’s experienced it himself. Although he’s used those negative thoughts as fuel, he understands that it’s not always easy to do what he did (hell, he barely did it). As his partner is speaking, I just imagine him putting both of his hands on their shoulders mid sentence. He’d press his forehead against their own and breathe out softly through his nose. I can imagine him saying, “you’re too hard on yourself…” And that’s pretty powerful coming from someone who’s always hard on themselves as well. Although he can justify that behavior towards himself, he doesn’t think his partner should be doing it to themselves.

I can picture him listing off every thing he loves about his partner, all while offering kisses in between every statement. But all at once, he’d want to work through those thoughts with his partner. He’s not usually good with his words (unless it’s being sassy), but he sincerely wants to try for them. He’d listen to where there head’s at, but I see him always having a rebuttal to every piece of self-doubt and uncertainty that his partner extends. Rick isn’t the type to be encouraging - let’s be honest, he’s put a lot of people down. So to see him extending praise so effortlessly (like, literally, not even seconds after his partner spoke), just shows you how highly he thinks of his significant other and how much faith he has in them to meet all their goals. But, he’d also critique some of those goals and expectations if he found them harmful. Affirmation is great, but he calls bullshit on anything that has the potential to hurt them.

EMILY: If it were anyone else, she’d tell them to suck it up. Emily has tremendous trust issues and doesn’t like it when others are vulnerable around her. However, when it comes to her partner, she exerts all of her energy and attention on them. Again, Emily feels uncomfortable and intimidated by vulnerability. She knows that people take advantage of emotions, but she’d never be the type to do that to her partner. Her partner would be the first person to confront her with depression and although Emily is well-read on the topic, she’d struggle with truly understanding it. She takes this opportunity to really hear her partner out, to really familiarize herself with these emotions and the source of them. Honestly, Emily would ask some great questions and you can tell she’s trying to really empathize with her partner in order to avoid saying something unnecessary or stupid. She understands expectations. She has set many for herself and constantly curses at herself for not meeting them. But… If her partner doesn’t meet them, she doesn’t think they’re a failure. Rather, she thinks they’re so brave for trying so hard. 

Emily will begin to admit her admiration, but she’d be careful to avoid sounding as if she’s encouraging the kind of expectations being set. She’d tell her partner that some goals just aren’t meant to be reached. Although it’s a hard pill to swallow, especially for her, she is trying to transition into his idea that it’s so much better to focus on goals that are attainable, not self-deprecating, and not established thanks to the influence of others. Honestly, while speaking, Emily is also internalizing this advice for herself. She thrives from communication and wants to have a genuine and intimate conversation with her partner. Eventually, she’ll realize that she needs to shut up, so she’ll simply guide her partners head into her lip and start playing with their hair. She’ll allow her physical presence to serve as a distraction, but continues to encourage her partner to speak - regardless of what the topic is.

EDDY: Eddy would most likely attempt to distract his partner immediately. Sometimes, people don’t want to talk. Sometimes, it’s scary to actually vocalize the very things you wish weren’t weighing on you. Having to repeat expectations can be frightening and he doesn’t want his significant other to make those expectations seem as if they’re real and should be worthy of their emotional labor. So, he’d swoop in, quite literally (probably picking them up bridal style and swinging them around) before taking them out somewhere. It’s not that Eddy is avoiding the issue - rather, he’s also aware that it’s probably not best to manifest that negative energy in a space devoted to love and relaxation. He’d encourage them to speak when they felt comfortable while they were out walking, or while they were watching the stars, or while they were at an amusement park. He wants to be surrounded by things that can easily lift his partner when he sees that they are sinking. His mentality is very much “I have to get you out of here. I have to make you feel good. I don’t want you thinking about things that don’t make you happy. I want you to always be surrounded by the things that can put a smile on your face.” So, in other words, he wants to make every place a safe space, but also allow his partner to escape if they aren’t in the mood to confront their feelings.

STEVE: Steve has learned to be a bit more sympathetic, but continues to be straight forward. When he goes his injury, he realized he couldn’t meet a lot of the expectations he set for himself. He understands exactly what his partner is going through, but instead of making it about himself, he continues to stay silent and listens to them the entire time. He’d be the type to pull them into his chest and slowly rub their shoulder. He uses a lot of physical gestures to calm his partner down and to put them at ease. Through physical therapy, he’s learned how simple gestures can make profound impacts on the body, so he’s passing that knowledge down in order to make his partner as comfortable as possible. 

[funkymbtifiction]

Healthy / Unhealthy Head Triad:

Pulled off PersonalityCafe. Saw no cited source. (Know it? Tell me.)

Enneagram 5

At their best: profound vision, objective insight, innovative exploration.

Mid-levels: comprehensive knowledge, intense preoccupation, cynical argumentation.

At their worst: eccentric nihilism, phobic delirium, psychotic paralysis.

Healthy 5w4: more able to participate in life. When the fiveish desire to withdraw and sort things out is no longer compulsive, the consciously chosen time alone becomes a tool for understanding the world, rather than an entrapping habit. The fourish passion for beauty emerges as the conscious result of harnessing the emotions rather than being their slave. Begin to deeply understand the simple, elegant way the awesome complexity of the world emerges from fundamental principles. They find great joy in watching and learning. When the perception of five and the passion of four are augmented by eight's power and leadership, plus one's intuitive wisdom, clear comprehensions can be transmitted to others.

Unhealthy 5w4: gets lost in the details. The compulsive analysis of five can lead to elaborate pseudo-logical constructions designed to explain everything. The four-wing's emotionality adds a flavor of dramatic hopelessness. Others Simply Do Not Understand. No one could understand. Retreats to a place of safety, hoping to escape from view, continuing to uncover the truth. There is little to no social involvement. The panic and scattered mania of seven combine with twoish self-congratulatory hysteria. Can come back into the world, awkward and excitable, ready to bolt but ready to passionately defend a bizarre, baroque fantasy world. As inner tension builds, schizoid withdrawal becomes more and more likely. The end result is a kind of terrified fugue, completely cut off from reality. The only escape from constant overwhelming chaos is inward.

Healthy 5w6: gains social ease. Deep perception and serene faith combine for a kind of knowing that focuses on the truth of human interactions. Overcomes the fear of intimacy and finds satisfaction in genuine relationships. Strikes a balance between the urge to withdraw to sort things out and the desire to feel safe among trusted friends. The need diminishes to protect against deceit by constantly analyzing people, leading to greater comfort and depth in friendship. Brings together the powerful insight of five, the stamina and leadership of eight, the deep faith and genuineness of six, and the inner peace of nine.

Unhealthy 5w6: becomes afraid of people. Mistrust interacts with reductionist analysis, and the world begins to seem more threatening. Threeish competitive urges might emerge, combining with sevenish mania to create a kind of intense, argumentative combativeness to hide a deep sense of inadequacy. This turns people away, leading to a greater sense of isolation. Tends to rationalize that most people are not honest anyway, and since other people fail to recognize the value of their brilliant ideas, they are not worth knowing at all. Paranoia and anxiety lead 5w6 into a terrifying spiral in which increasingly bizarre fabrications may be used to explain meaning into even the most mundane events.

Enneagram 6

At their best: self-affirming courage, faithful affection, responsible discipline.

Mid-levels: dutiful loyalty, anxious ambivalence, belligerent scapegoating.

At their worst: needy conformism, paranoid obsession, self-destructive panic.

Healthy 6w5: becomes free of anxiety and reductionist analysis, allowing their endearing gentility and good humor to emerge. Laughs easily, with a sense of relief. Can it really be so simple to live and enjoy life? There is a feeling of relaxed good nature and certainty. This is a person you can trust, someone to rely on for true friendship. Turns into a warm and deeply loving person, someone in touch with a real universal authority, internally and externally available. Acts with quiet confidence, coming from a place of peaceful faith. Essential sixness brings deep interpersonal bonding, essential fiveness builds penetrating perception, and nineish tranquility combines with eightish personal power.

Unhealthy 6w5: begins to feel anxious and wants to run away to a protected place. Unable to trust inner or outer authority, they search for an explanation for the constant tension. Others are easy to blame, and by projecting the causes of anxiety outward, 6w5 can find a temporary release. With increased stress, 6w5 loses faith in the blaming. No explanation for the anxiety satisfies, and the world begins to seem like a horrible, frightening game. Paranoia escalates. Bounces rapidly from fearful withdrawal to tense, overconfident pretense. Everyone is out to get me, and there is no place to run. I'm frightened out of my wits, and I know I am headed for a complete breakdown, but maybe if I can get myself into enough trouble someone will come and rescue me.

Healthy 6w7: has a feeling of firm steadiness, sure-footed and quiet. Sevenish impulsivity and sixish anxiety diminish, replaced by a calm deliberateness. Although fun and companionship are still highly valued, the desperate longing for security converts into inner strength. Finds a deep sense of belonging to the universe, and to mankind. Nineish calm and sixish faith combine with sevenish joy and fiveish perception. Shares with others a sense of eternal companionship and security.

Unhealthy 6w7: visibly desperate. Anxiety and insecurity become powerful controlling influences. Jumping from one colorful emotional state to another, trying to find any way to quell the increasing sense of uncertainty and vulnerability. They looks for someone out there who will help, but finds no one to trust. Will try anything to escape from the increasingly intolerable situations that arise. Physical illness, car troubles, boyfriends, girlfriends, landlords, all become scapegoats for the real problem of inner helpless dependence. You are either all-good or all-bad, and whether I like you or not can change from moment to moment. My very identity splits into fragments as I desperately cut myself into pieces to escape the horrible sense of impending catastrophe.

Enneagram 7

At their best: ecstatic gratitude, spontaneous enthusiasm, passionate accomplishment.

Mid-levels: active materialism, restless superficiality, addictive excess.

At their worst: irresponsible debauchery, manic hysteria, burnt-out debilitation.

Healthy 7w6: finds a new kind of centered calmness, as impulsivity and the desire to entertain fall away. Instead of shifting to another mood, they wait and see where this one leads. The slippery, happy-go-lucky quality is replaced by a smooth feeling of attentive watchfulness. A kind of directed, joyful intelligence like a sure presence, with an unlimited attention span. Becomes the master of many talents because of fiveish perceptivity, combined with deep fulfillment and pleasure from the experience of being fully present. Profoundly grateful for the continuing opportunity to take part in the unfolding drama of life. What a gorgeous, unpredictably fantastic world! What incredible beauty there is in even the smallest details of this universe! How excitingly alive I feel, and how at-one with the world! Let's celebrate together the deep abundance of life and love.

Unhealthy 7w6: the search for ever-increasing levels of excitement and stimulation seems like a way out of the apparent trap of boredom and unease, but it brings only temporary relief. Maybe another kind of fun will help me avoid this increasing sense of hopeless ambivalence. Maybe I should start a new company, or have a great big party! Tries to find the answer in increasingly grand plans for great, exciting events. As the ever-growing fear and boredom keep coming back, excessive stimulation approaches dangerous levels. Without increasing awareness, this course of exciting overload leads to extreme exhaustion, and an incapacitating despairing depression. At the bottom of the scale of health, 7w6 becomes a worn-out husk, utterly debilitated by drugs, sexual excess, and general over-stimulation, and totally incapable of self-care. At every opportunity, every means available is used to provide some escape.

Healthy 7w8: settles down. Become aware of the compulsive nature of the desire for excess and learn how to moderate the constant power-trip. Finds other people are easier to get along with when they are not being pushed or receiving a hard-sell on some wild idea. Love and appreciation for subtlety become important aspects of a life that includes increasing amounts of silent, peaceful contemplation. Discovers by letting the mind's chatter come to an end, a new level of perception emerges, with a greater understanding of how the world fits together. Instead of exploding outward into impulsive activity, 7w8 harnesses enthusiasm for practical uses. Life becomes a joyful, loving celebration. Look how much we have been given! Jump into the universe with both feet! Find your power and become what you were meant to be!

Unhealthy 7w8: gets ever-wilder. When others fail to respond with enough enthusiasm to high-pressure sales tactics, and the high of the latest exciting trip begins to wear off, it's time for the next wild ride. Maybe just a little bigger dose will do it. New ideas seem to erase old problems, and each one is bigger and better than the last one. If it doesn't work, forget it and move to the next grand scheme. You've got to try this, it's totally fantastic! As the highs get higher, the lows scrape lower. The miserable mornings are soon forgotten, because there's an even better high coming. Heads into ever-deeper entrapment, promising ever-greater rewards to those who will finance (or otherwise support) rapidly exploding levels of excessive indulgence. It all leads inevitably to the great crash, and utter dissipation.

[thisisblooming-blog]

PERSONAL BEST LEADERSHIP EXPERIENCE

CHECK OUT MY FIRST ITERATION HERE

WHY ANOTHER ITERATION?

Here’s the thing, I actually don’t think my first iteration was too shabby. I actually kind of really liked it a lot, at least, I did in writing. Read it (if you have time), and you just might agree. I made it sound like PRVP is the best role ever. By the end of writing it, I actually started to believe that… sort of.

But here’s the other thing, I HATE (yes I know that is very strong word) that leadership position a whole lot of the time. I hate that it takes up so much of my time that I could spend putting towards other things that I find more value in in my life. Sometimes, I get extremely frustrated or even hurt by the girls I have to work with. I can’t stand the lack of appreciation that my chapter has for me a lot of the time and the countless hours that I put into this position, but I am also fully aware that they really don’t know how much work the position is. I am so frustrated by the girls below me who don't respect what I have to say in leading them the majority of the time, when I truly do have their best interest in mind.

Have I learned A TON from this leadership position? Absolutely.

Do I completely regret it and plan to drop it right now? Definitely not.

Have I taken intentional steps in pruning this role so that other things I want to do with the hours in my days can have more room and more nutrients from me to bloom? You can bet your bottom dollar I have.

I actually had a little bit of a mid-life-mid-life crisis in relation to this role over jterm on the “Design Your Life” program, and I had a sit-down talk with Beth Troy about it in early February. She said something to me that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “You don’t have to be A+ Maddie everywhere you go, it’s ok to prioritize and be B Maddie in some areas of your life. Let’s be honest, B Maddie is still pretty darn good.” That was LIFE-CHANGING for me.

This role was frustrating me so much and so misaligned with my values that I wanted to just prune it out of my life completely. When it dawned on me that I couldn’t do that because of the commitment I made to the girls in my chapter, I decided to bloom where I was planted as best I could and take actionable steps to help the situation.

I am definitely  “B Maddie” in the role, and so far, no one in my chapter has really seemed to notice. I made the pressure and expectations so high for myself in the beginning, and then it finally dawned on me that the only one that had made those standards for myself was me. I also created an assistant role for myself in this position and that has made a world of difference. I have been working to find the balance between blooming where I am planted and also allowing myself to prune all the while.

So long story short, while this leadership experience has been valuable and a phenomenal learning experience, I would not say that it has been my personal best. I actually had an experience this semester that was so nonconventional in the way that it happened that when looking back on it, I would say it was my actual personal best leadership experience.

MY *ACTUAL* PERSONAL BEST LEADERSHIP EXPERIENCE

Where did it take place? Zionsville Presbyterian Church

When did it take place?  February 15th-17th, 2019

What was your specific role?

“Adult Table Leader”

Leading high school girls throughout the weekend in meaningful conformation to “awaken” them from their spiritual slumber and open their eyes into all the Lord has in store for their lives.

What were the actual results? 

The actual results were lifechange, for both me and the girls that I got to lead through the weekend. Lifechange in the sense that community was built, vulnerable and hard things were shared, and faith was made stronger.

Why was this situation important?

This situation was important for multiple reasons. First of all, back in highschool when I was going through this retreat, it completely changed my life. I felt the presence of the Lord SO strongly, and I truly do feel like it was a weekend that changed my life. I wanted that same transformational power to enter into the lives of these girls. I went in with the power of that vision in my own life and wanted to inspire them to seek that same transformational vision in their own.

Secondly, this situation was important, because my mom, THE most important person in my life, needed me to be a part of her team. There was a hole in the equation that I could fill, and I felt very strongly that I needed to step up and fill that for her.

Third of all, this was a position where I didn’t let my fear of failure, and in reality my VOJ, get in the way of what I truly desired to achieve.

If you initiated the experience, why did you do it?  What motivated you?

THIS is what makes this leadership experience super unique for me, I TOTALLY did not initiate it. In fact, I resisted it quite a bit.

Here’s what went down. My mom was in charge of this retreat, and had asked several adult women, like senior in college to their early thirties, to lead the conversation among these highschool girls this weekend. I had NO problem with her not asking me, I most certainly did not consider myself an adult, or to be as knowledgeable as them.

But then, last minute, one of these leaders dropped. Just ghosted my mom completely. My mom came to me, saying she really needed me to fill this role and saying that she really felt a nudge from the Lord that I would rise to the occasion.

I was TOTALLY terrified. Me? Leading high-school girls? In a weekend where I knew I would likely be asked to be vulnerable about my life and also have to help them through significantly difficult questions and obstacles that they were facing in their own lives? I felt like I would be a total poser, completely incapable of leading them. My self-doubt was TREMENDOUS.

I was honestly just motivated by not wanting to let my mom down, as I know she would do anything for me.

What were your hopes and dreams in accomplishing this?

To be completely candid, my biggest hope was to not screw this up. Leading among so many women and mentors that I had looked up to my entire life scared the beans out of me. My goal was to get through the weekend by making it meaningful for these girls while and not completely ruining it for them along the way. I felt an immense amount of pressure by how incredible this retreat had been for me in high school, and I wanted them to feel the same way about their experience.

How would you describe your emotions at the beginning of the situation?

Like I mentioned above, I was scared out of my mind. I felt completely overwhelmed and totally under qualified to be in this position. In the beginning, I just prayed that I would be a vessel for the Lord; that He would give me the words to say and the wisdom to answer these girls questions.

What actions did you take that contributed to the team’s and the situation’s success. In the space below, describe your behaviors as a leader. What things did you do to create momentum so extraordinary things were accomplished? Be specific.

I went into the situation very humbly. I am not sure if this was completely intentional, but I think that is what made this such an effective behavior as a leader. In a way, you could say this was modeling the way and enabling others to act. I saw myself more as one of that girls as someone who was above the girls. I was a part of their conversations, not the director of their conversations. I was sitting at the same circular table as the rest of them, being just as vulnerable (which was SO scary in front of highschool girls who weren’t expecting me to share some of what I did) as the rest of them. I took part without taking ownership of the whole, and it changed everything.

I made the power of the vision I had for the weekend very clear. I shared how extraordinarily powerful this weekend could be if we just agreed to trust each other and to be genuinely, authentically, and recklessly vulnerable. To truly share everything that was on our hearts, no strings attached, no judgement from anyone listening. I made this vision clear, and these girls came into this vision wholeheartedly by the end of the weekend, equally recognizing its power. It was pretty darn special to be a part of.

I encouraged the hearts of the girls I was leading throughout this weekend constantly. Every time they shared what they were wrestling with, I recognized the immense courage that it took to share that with the group, and I thanked them for taking the time to share. It was like a chain reaction, once one girl shared and was affirmed in doing so, each girl at the table eventually shared too. It was SO awesome, I could cry just thinking about it.

Finally, I challenged the process a little bit, and as someone who it pretty risk averse, that was scary! I did this through humor. This is such a heavy and serious weekend, and while I wanted the girls to feel what needed to be felt, I also wanted their overall experience from this weekend to be one that was extremely positive. This meant, at times that may have not totally been appropriate; I was cracking jokes, dancing around like idiot, and singing at the top of my lungs. I didn’t let my fear of what these high school girls thought of me get in the way of this. I truly just went for it. At first, I think the girls at my table were a little shocked by this pure silliness and slight immaturity, but eventually, they joined in too. It was awesome.

Did you face any major challenges or setbacks?  How did you and the team overcome them?

At first, during these hard conversations, the girls at my table were not opening up. I felt like I was not reaching them. I was trying my best to spark conversation, but certain girls were still not really opening up, and a few didn’t say anything at all. This is where model the way came in and saved the day. I would ask a question and when there was no response, I would just be super vulnerable. I would share something that I had wrestled with, or something dark about myself that not many people in my life know about me, something that made me feel icky inside. It only took me doing this once or twice and establishing that I trusted these girls fully and they could expect the same from me that they opened up too. We got around this issue so quickly in the weekend, and all it took was a little bit of bravery to take the first step and encouraging these girls to do the same.

What were the guiding principles that governed your actions?  How did you lead by example?

I feel like I am going to get pretty repetitive here, but my guiding principles at first, like said above, were purely to not screw this up. Eventually, these principles morphed into making this a once in a lifetime weekend of transformation within these girls’ lives and within their faith journeys.

To see how I feel this was accomplished, check out my response to the actions I took section above.

What did you learn about leadership style and practice from this personal best experience?

You’ll notice that this is the same as my other iteration. I really don't think this has changed. If anything, I would add that I lead most effectively when I keep myself humble.

I learned that I am a gentle, yet effective, leader. My friend Kate described my leadership style as being the “silent killer.” She said, “You don’t have to be loud or aggressive about it, but you sure know how to make the change happen.” I don’t think I will ever forget that. I have learned to embrace that “silent killer” identity in all that I have the opportunity to lead.

If you were going to teach a class about leadership based on this experience, what lessons would you share about being an effective leader?

The greatest lesson I learned from this experience is to lead humbly. Go into the experience with the mindset of having the privilege to be a part of the whole, a part of the solution. Get the wheels turning by leading the way and showing how crazy awesome the vision you get the chance to share can be, and then be a mentor and friend. Be someone that people can look up to without looking down on them. Look up to your team. Look up to who you get to work with. Odds are, they’re pretty awesome and have some incredible things to share if you let them.

[laschatzi]

Smiles

A little belated birthday gift for @effulgentcolors, as our conversations about wishing for more support for Killian have kinda sparked this.

title: Smiles

summary: a little 3x20 canon divergence where Killian is not left out at the hospital but is unexpectedly included

rating: G

word count: ~1,600

also on: ff.net and ao3

Never thought I'd see one of those.

It's called a baby.

No, Swan. A smile.

A smile.

Nothing makes Killian Jones's heart soar more than seeing Emma Swan smile, indeed a very rare occasion, so he should really be happy, and he is. Yet...

His own lips pull briefly into a smile, but it's one of those melancholic ones that are dominated by the sadness in his eyes.

It's a really heartwarming scenario, and it does warm his heart, to see this family united that has gone through so much, lost each other so many times. But in the end, they always find each other... save each other. It's almost like the strong bond they share ties them together in a way that makes it physically impossible for any force, magical or not, to separate them permanently. These people... deep down in his heavy, heavy heart he knows he cares about them, all of them, even if he keeps telling himself that what bound him to this latest quest was just a temporary alliance. Of course it was not. And Emma Swan... he loves her, there's no use in denying that, he's even said it out loud. He hasn't given up hope yet that she might change her mind about going back to New York with her lad, even if the odds don't seem to be in his favor. Even though she's very adamant about it being the best choice, he has a feeling that she might be trying a little too hard to convince herself that it's for the best... or is that just wishful thinking on his part?

Killian exhales slowly and lets his gaze sweep almost longingly over the family huddled together in the hospital room once more before he takes a step back, suddenly feeling a mighty urge to leave this place. Because watching something from afar you long for but most likely never will be a part of... it's not something you want to endure for long. Emma offered him once that he could be a part of something, and he tried, he really tried his best to be exactly that, but somehow he never really seemed to fit in. And when you're always the outsider, only reluctantly tolerated to be around, but never really valued or trusted, it weighs on you, it hurts... especially when you know that you probably deserve that cool shoulder mostly shown to you.

He turns around and heads for the stairs, not really trusting that suspicious thing they call elevator, when he hears Emma's voice, surprisingly enough, calling him. “Hook! Where are you going?”

He stops mid move, and it takes him a few moments to collect himself and plaster a fake smile on his face before he turns around, mask firmly in place, and raises his eyebrows in question without a reply, but she obviously doesn't expect one.

She takes two steps in his direction, fists buried deep in the pockets of her jeans, and asks, “Don't you want to say hello to my brother?”

Now that's a little unexpected. “Oh, I don't know...” He scratches behind his ear and tilts his head in a doubtful way. “I wouldn't want to... intrude.”

“Intrude?” she echoes, and the incredulity in her voice elates him to stupid amounts. “You helped saving him, remember?”

He averts his eyes and shakes his head. “Not really, Swan. I'd only made it worse. Regina ended it,” he points out. “Hardly anything I could contribute.”

Emma licks her lips, suddenly the tiniest bit nervous, much to his surprise. “Yeah, about that...” She draws a deep breath. “Listen, I owe you an apology.” Killian's ears prick up, and his eyebrows raise higher than usual. A smile and an apology from Emma Swan? Today must be a really extraordinary day for sure. “What I said the other day about you,” she continues and, after a little hesitation, adds, “about your hand... I didn't mean it like that.” She shakes her head vigorously as if trying to affirm her statement. “I was scared and angry because of the secret you'd kept, and I... I... just wanted to lash out,” she admits, looking him firmly in the eyes. “Not like that's an excuse, but...”

He raises his hand almost impatiently. Wonderful. If nothing else, his bloody deficiency always makes for a nice conversation, doesn't it? “It's okay, Swan. I understand,” he replies soberly and tilts his head. “You were upset and worried for your family.”

“Yeah, well.” Of fucking course he understands. Sometimes she wishes he wasn't so goddamn understanding all the time; that would make a lot of things a lot easier, for example keeping her distance. “That doesn't make it any better,” she states a little more curtly than intended. “I didn't want to hurt you, Hook,” she finally adds firmly and sincerely.

He looks away for a moment, his jaw clenching, and he wishes, he so wishes, she'd stop calling him that and say his name, his real name. Just once. Then he presses his lips into another smile, not exactly fake, but maybe a little forced. “Rest assured, it takes a little more than a barb to do that.”

“Still–”

Emma is cut off when David rushes out of the hospital room. “Where is he?” he asks, his eyes scanning the corridor, and when he spots Killian, he exclaims, “Hook!” Weirdly enough, somehow it doesn't bother him when Emma's father calls him that, he can't even tell why that is... maybe the sort of grumpy camaraderie that has slowly developed between them. The prince cocks his head in the direction of the room. “Come and meet our son.” When he sees that Killian seems to hesitate, unsure what to do, he reaches out with his arm in an inviting gesture and smiles. “Please.”

Killian still feels a little awkward, but he follows. David's gesture and demeanor warms his heart, because he knows it's genuine: if he has learned one thing about him, then it's that this man has not one duplicitous bone in his body, and he can't fake a smile for the life of him. He still feels like he's somehow intruding, but Henry and Snow are smiling at him in a welcoming way, and so he tentatively steps nearer, smiling a little insecurely at the tiny sleeping infant.

“He's gorgeous, Milady,” he finally says. “Congratulations, to you both.”

“Thank you,” the princess bandit replies and adds pointedly, “for everything you did.”

He sways his head from side to side and averts his eyes, hand coming up to fidget and rub behind his ear. “Well, I didn't really–”

“You risked your life,” David cuts him off and points out, “again.” The prince looks down at his shoes for a moment and studies the dirt from Zelena's barn still covering their tips, before he looks back at Killian and adds in a sincerely regretful tone, “When we... took the first opportunity to mistrust you.”

Killian would never have expected this. He almost squirms, raises his hand and waves him off a little awkwardly. “Really, mate, it's alright. I–“

“No, it's not,” David interrupts, his pale blue eyes fixed firmly on Killian's, “and we're sorry.” Snow looks at him sincerely, too, and nods, affirming that her husband speaks for her, as well. Killian doesn't want to admit it, but the appreciation from the couple means a lot to him. Just like, a few hours ago, it meant a lot to him how Emma's father quickly dropped the initial mistrust and defended him against his daughter's ire, Zelena backed you into a corner, you did the best you could. Maybe he's wrong, and they don't just barely tolerate him.

There's nothing more to say than to honor their obviously sincere apologies, so he finally caves and nods once, almost solemnly. “Accepted.”

When David smiles again he can't help but smile back shyly, before he deliberately changes the subject. “So, the little Prince... does he have a name?” he inquires, briefly remembering the bickering of Emma's parents about that obviously touchy subject.

“We haven't decided yet,” the princess bandit says quickly, “but you'll hear it tomorrow at the naming ceremony.”

Killian cocks an eyebrow. “The naming ceremony?” he echoes.

“Sure.” Snow throws him an amused glance, and he could have sworn she almost winked. “You... do know what that is, don't you?”

He chuckles a little awkwardly. “Of course. I'm just surprised that my presence... is requested.”

“It's not only requested,” David points out. “It would be a great pleasure to see you there.”

Briefly, his hand comes up to scratch behind his ear, then he tilts his head in that minute almost-bow. “Gladly.” Bloody hell, it's really time for him to leave now; the scratchy sound of his voice embarrasses him even more than all that unexpected and undeserved praise.

David returns his nod with a satisfied smile, and Killian's gaze drifts off for a moment, an incredulous smile of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth. When he focuses again and turns around to leave, he notices that Emma's eyes are resting on him; when their gazes meet, she briefly smiles at him and nods.

“See you tomorrow.”

She sounds like she's not displeased about that, and this time her smile makes him truly happy – stupid maybe, because nothing has really changed. She still hasn't said his name, and she's still planning to leave for New York soon... but who knows? He has a feeling that she almost said his name.

When he leaves the hospital, he smiles, too.

[imalifegen89]

A Legacy Left Behind - Chapter 1 - Initial Encounters - Part 3

Central Command Center, Terra Atlantus - Antarctica

John was just finishing his cup of what felt like the best coffee in the world, after spending 12 days cooped up healing inside a stasis pod, according to the cute nurse who got him breakfast. He was only allowed a bowl of warm oatmeal and a glass of juice, but he managed to charm Natalie enough to take pity on him and smuggle him a coffee. He was sworn to secrecy on the pain of death. John had taken the oath solemnly.

The wave of urgency came from nowhere and everywhere at once and he was off the infirmary bed and running towards the centre of the building before it even registered he was moving. A startled nurse yelped and jumped out of his way and he hastily threw an apology over the shoulder, but didn't break stride.

He barreled into the control room with the Chair, without really realizing the mounting dread and chaos in the atmosphere. Nobody even noticed the scrubs clad Major until he was right in front of the Chair and focused on the petrified doctor who was clutching onto the Chair for his dear life. The people around Carson were shouting at him urgently to shut it the hell down.

"Get off the Chair. Now Doctor!" The barked command brokered no argument and Carson flew off the chair as if he was thrown off by an invisible force.

John was seated on it the moment doctor came off. The Chair brightened and inclined all the way like it had never done before, since it was discovered. The whole platform was bathed in a shimmering blue as the space above their heads was transformed into a translucent holographic display of the immediate vicinity outside the facility.

John had his eyes closed in concentration. In his mind's eye, he saw the scene of the impending doom of one General Jack O'Neill and his pilot inside the approaching Black Hawk. He stared in amazement at the amount of clear and precise details he was provided through his link to the Chair that housed the control core of the facility. The identities of the life signs, the flying object, speed, height, wind conditions, temperatures and all sorts of other minute data streamed into his mind, all neatly labeled. The warmth he had gotten very much familiar with during his days in the pod was insistent and apologetic in the back of his mind. John spared a second to send reassurance that it was not its fault and John was going to take care of it.

He focused on the squid-like missile that was on its way to annihilate the oncoming intruder. The missile was confident in the live lock it had on the intruder and was cheerfully informing Sheppard that the kill will be confirmed in 6.342 seconds.

John thanked the missile for its bravery and told it sternly to stand down now because this was not an intruder; but most certainly the leader of the Outpost. Therefore they needed to keep him alive and grant him unhindered entry.

The squid missile was skeptical. John was the princeps/primaria (leader/ primary), not the life sign inside the incoming flying object; the missile was quite sure.

OK! John spent another half a precious second to digest that bit of news and went back to his mental link to the missile. He confirmed that yes he was sure and the little missile must ABORT and RETURN TO BASE right now. No, it was not in trouble for anything and yes, John promised it would be sent out first the next time any invader showed up because it was a perfect little missile with top notch performance.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when he felt the squid missile change course in an elegant, sweeping turn mid air, barely 10 yards from the chopper, and started a sedate run back towards the Outpost. He kept his mental link, sending praise and encouragement towards the little ball of destruction as he guided it back inside the building through the roof door and to the cradle on the platform. Then he gently laid it down as if it were a sleeping baby.

He disengaged from the Chair the moment he felt the missile go dormant and reclined it to a sitting position. He had been reacting on reflex until that point and as the surrounding glow and the last of the shimmering lights were fading away, he became aware that he had made a bit of a spectacle of himself.

Dr. Carson, Dr. Rodney the Hurricane and five other doctors and a few shell shocked Marines were all staring at him with their mouths half open and eyes bugging out their sockets. He gave them all a sweeping glance from left to right and broke into an abashed lopsided grin.

"The chopper is fine, it didn't crash or anything-The General should be here in about 6 minutes or so. And the missile won't take off again by accident if you want to keep studying it. I made sure of it," he reported to Dr. Carson because he was the only person he had spoken to before. He hoped that the Marines who were still staring at him in shock wouldn't come to their senses and arrest him for trespassing or something.

Dr. Hurricane managed to break away first from his astonishment and started grinning from ear to ear in a disturbing way.

"Of course! This is why it went through all those tantrums to get you here. That was quite good. You think maybe you made a record of it so I can study it frame by frame? Later of course, maybe as a side project." He gushed at John.

"See now I can start on these re-calibrations and run the diagnostics on the side at the same time. Oh yes, maybe get the crazy Czech to upload his maintenance wish list as well." He started clicking his fingers to himself and started to type at light speed on one of his laptops, muttering about the Lists and Schedules.

Carson recovered quickly upon hearing this and came instantly to his patient's defense once again. "Absolutely not, you daft bugger, the Major is still not released for duty and I need to keep him under observation for at least 12 more hours in the infirmary."

"Aye you look a bit pale already lad." The last comment was directed at John and if he was honest, John could feel a slight pressure build up behind his eyes and temples already.

He stood from the Chair and Carson moved to help him on reflex. That was a good thing because John swayed slightly on his feet and the doctor steadied him.

"Hello, Major Sheppard, I'm Dr. Elizabeth Weir. I'm the head of admin here and I would love to speak to you when Carson allows you visitors." John carefully shook the offered hand of the beaming Dr.Weir and replied an affirmative politely.

And then he let himself be herded away by Carson, to the relative safety of the infirmary. where John could hide away from the gleaming eyes and beaming smiles that were pointed at him from everywhere.

He heard one of the Marines finally letting out a loud relieved sigh and announcing that he was going to update McMurdo about the timely averted disaster, before walking away towards a phone mounted on a wall.

Defense Outpost - Antarctica

General O'Neill found himself inside the elevator, slowly grinding downhill to the central command of the Ancient Outpost not quite dead, as yet. He had left his shaken pilot above ground to collect himself and regroup. O'Neill hoped one of the soldiers above would give him a proper meal and may be some Valium. There were a few times that O'Neill had been concerned the kid might just finish the job the alien missile started; by the wobbly way he piloted the bird the rest of the journey. He was going to have to get someone else to chauffeur him back, he sighed to himself.

The elevator door opened down below to reveal the ecstatic and excited frame of Dr. Daniel Jackson. He was beaming from ear to ear and grabbed the General by the shoulder and propelled him along towards the inner building when the General did not move fast enough for him.

"Oh, Jack, That was just brilliant! We got this bright and live holo-display on the ceiling and we saw everything! I mean everything with sound effects to boot! It even had your weight and the pulse rate on display -it was crazy- One moment this bad boy was zooming in on you to blow you up and then it just turns around, cool as you please and just comes strolling back in! You just had to see it Jack. I think McKay was asking for a recording, so you might just get to see it!"

"Gee Daniel, I'm so glad my imminent death was such a source of entertainment for you." Said the General mildly.

"Oh no. I mean, no it wasn't. Of course not." Jackson fidgeted, pushed his glasses up his nose briefly and looked appropriately contrite for about a half a second.

"But Jack, you didn't die and the Major saved you just in time! You know what this means, right? Think of the treasure trove of data he can dig up for us! Finally we can make some meaningful headway in locating Atlantis!" And he was back to bright-eyed bushy-tailed Fan-Girling excitement.

"We will let the man recover and talk to him first before we go hard wiring his ass to an Ancient thing-a-ma-jig, eh Jackson?" He patted the overly excited scientist on the shoulder and continued sedately towards the people who were waiting to give him a proper report. He hoped.

He went around the central command and continued his way towards the bigger and open area they had converted to a conference room. As predicted, Dr.Weir, Dr. McKay, Lt. Ford and Sergeant Marks were waiting for him. Jackson went around O’Neill to join the expectant and beaming faces and turned towards him, completing the united front.

This should be good, Jack O’Neill mused privately.

"Welcome to Terra Atlantus General O'Neill-I would ask how your journey here was, but we all know that it was eventful. It was a genuine accident and we managed to avert the disaster in time thanks to our newest addition, Major Sheppard. I do apologize on behalf of the team for the scare, General."

Ever the diplomat, Weir didn't waste time extending her warm and happy welcome, heartfelt apology and the main objective of this little meeting all in one breath, punctuated with a warm toothy smile.

He nodded at her but turned his attention to the young Lieutenant who was holding himself at painfully rigid attention.

"Please unlock yourself from that painful stance and tell me what happened, Ford?" He waved a hand at the Marine and took the seat at the head of the long table, signaling everybody to sit and get on with it.

The Lieutenant went to a parade rest and relaxed marginally.

"Sir, the Drs McKay and Beckett were attempting a system check with the Chair and the Drs. Gordon and Sommers were occupied with the inert missile. Then the missile went online and took off through the roof. According to Dr. McKay, this was probably due to poor or confusing mental link generation. Then the Major intervened and managed to recall the bogey back to base and store it. He informed us that it was safe from any unscheduled flights again. Sir." He sat down ramrod straight, once finished with the succinct account.

“Yes, yes, I have told him many times to concentrate properly. But seeing as he was the only one who could make the thing work, I had to get him on it. Those power readings were all over the place and I had to make sure we didn't blow up or implode. If he had just given me the Major instead of himself, I'm sure we wouldn't have launched a live missile at you -” added McKay impatiently.

“- Accidentally.” He remembered to tag in.

"Are they stable now? Are we about to explode or implode?" At McKay's confused look O'Neil sighed to himself.

"The power readings you were just now worried about Doc? It is still wonky or stable?" He asked with great patience.

"What? Wonky? Of course they are stable now. In fact, the power levels throughout the whole structure have leveled out and distributed for maximum efficiency."

"Huh, I wonder if he did it on purpose or if the system just did it by itself after recognizing his presence." The doctor muttered the last to himself; promptly getting busy on the laptop he had in front of him.

Concentrating only on the fact that they were not about to go boom in the near future for the moment, Jack turned his attention towards the head of admin.

"So tell me Dr. Weir, how goes the life here?" He settled comfortably into the chair, draping his arm over the back rest. By experience, he knew this would take time. The Sergeant placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of him and he gave the man a smile. There are still some kind and humane people around here Jack, he told himself.

"Oh everything has been wonderful of course. The excavation team's last report stated with confidence that we will be finished with the final bit of discovery of the complex by the end of the week. We shall be able to send a team for exploration to that area soon. They are saying that they may have unearthed a lab area and what looks to be a closed up storage area of some kind. The exploration team is quite excited that it could be more drones or maybe even the gate ships the data-base mentioned.”

“Doctor Beckett and his team are ready to proceed with the animal trials for the artificial gene therapy. He is confident that his serum will manipulate the junk DNA in a human into a maximum level IV ATA capability. This will work on about 75% of non ATA gene population according to his latest report. Once we are through the trials and upon a peer committee approval, we could move to the clinical trials and then start the distribution among the SGC personnel -" Weir said before pausing for breath and taking a sip of her tea.

Just as well, because O'Neill was beginning to wonder if she was hiding an extra pair of lungs on her somewhere.

"Also, the translation of the initial data transfer we got from the Ancient depository is going well. We have had two more data transfers from engaging the Chair since then. We are getting all kinds of information about the Outpost, its capabilities, hints of other possible structures located around the galaxy even. But the translation is slow going since we only have three people who are proficient in the Ancient language, but it all looks quite promising."

She gave the General a winning smile before continuing.

"This is exactly why the Major will be invaluable right now. He will be able to sort the whole database into a coherent entity with an accessible index for us to study it efficiently. Not to mention all the help he can provide with the hard science projects around all Ancient equipment and of course the offense and defense capabilities of Terra Atlantus itself."

She finished her spiel without failing to enforce that they already had their greedy mitts wrapped tightly around poor Sheppard.

Not that Jack objected. He didn't. He could appreciate the value of having a close copy of an Ancient to run all things Ancient. He was quite sure the Ancient Outpost did not go through all the trouble of almost taking the entire nation hostage and demanding the life sign designated ‘P1’ be found and delivered to Antarctica, post-goddamn-haste, just to give him up. No, they needed him alright.

He had seen the kid's military jacket and was suitably impressed. The kid could pilot all the choppers on active service and a couple of fighters and even some of the heavy birds. He did have the odd remark or two made by his more sedate COs (read: desk jockeys) about following orders and maverick tendencies. But this was on a par with black ops requirements and they needed intelligent, quick thinking, cocky pilots who treated orders a bit like guidelines sometimes to get the job done. O'Neill would know, because he was not that different from this kid not too long ago. That was until someone at the head of the food chain decided to give him stars on the shoulder in the vain hope that it would make him more of a level-headed, responsible drone person.

Therefore he was convinced that this kid needed a proper and thorough orientation into the world of Stargate Command. This included the trip to Cheyenne mountain; the home of Stargate Command. The kid would get the full briefing of the program including its history, introduction to the planet-hopping through the gate, a thorough education on all things Ancient, the menace of the Wraith and a proper introduction and integration to the military contingent of the SGC.

And since he was the reason Jack wasn't dead and buried under burning wreckage, he would also get the kid into Area 51 where they designed their coolest toys to date. Time spent among the F-302 fighter interceptors and even cooler Ancient/Asgard hybrid X-13 fighters would do him good. Jack would also throw in the mandatory tours in their five active duty warships in orbit, as the cherry on top.

It had obviously nothing to do with the fact that Jack might be able to coax the kid into flying him back to McMurdo on the way back and continue the journey to the mountain with him in the luxury of the SGC private jet. Of course not; Jack was quite sure the Richardson kid was quite capable of flying him back. Maybe…

All this and more would take time. Jack was determined to get the kid through due process before this lot buried him here under the ice in the name of research, never to be seen again. Jack knew from experience that the scientists of all kinds generally lost touch with reality when they got their way. They all needed careful handling and management. And Jack was not about to release John Sheppard in-to their well-meaning yet disastrous clutches without proper training on geek-handling as well. This was the main reason he made this unscheduled visit in the first place. When he had seen the latest update the day before that the Major was out of the pod, he had made arrangements to be here when he woke up.

"I have been digging through the archives on all things Atlantis Jack - I think I'm quite close to figuring out the last recorded gate address to where the Ancients took off to. I have a feeling it might be in a different galaxy- Andromeda or probably Pegasus. And we will be another step closer to the Lost City. We'll need to focus on acquiring a ZPM because I think we might need extra power to dial this one. I just need to decode the final bit of the chevrons and we will be good to go." Jackson added his two cents to the cause.

Dr. McKay piped up when he heard the magic word.

"A Zero Point Module, often abbreviated Zed Pee Em, or for you Americans Zee Pee Em, is a power source, created by the Ancients, capable of supplying tremendous amounts of energy. It is one of the most formidable power sources known to exist, having been developed by the Ancients of course, kind of like a miniature universe in a bottle-oh, we could really use one more of those."

“Why, thank you for the waste of that perfect explanation McKay," O'Neill sniped at the unhealthy excitement pouring out of the chief of science. He then looked around and added, "Well, since everything seems to be more or less on track and in all of your capable hands, I would like to meet Sheppard now."

With that he rose swiftly from his chair and exited the conference room without giving anyone the chance to regroup and start making demands. When Daniel and Weir started to follow, he gently but firmly informed them he wanted to see the Major by himself.

The Infirmary

He found the kid sitting cross legged on a bed at the far end of the infirmary, hunched over a PDA Carson had kindly given him. It dawned on him then, seeing the still white scrubs-clad figure, that it wasn't that long ago Marshall found him half dead in a cell in Afghanistan. The stasis pod had done a good job, he thought to himself.

Carson was hovering nearby over the medical paraphernalia surrounding Sheppard. When the Major saw the one star general ambling towards him, he automatically started to stiffen up to attention. O'Neill casually waved a hand at him to stay put and went to sit comfortably on the bed next to Sheppard. His ass was numb from having to sit on that metal chair at the conference room for a half an hour.

"So, you're the hot shot who saved my ass just now, hah? Thanks for that. So how's it going? You are feeling alright after your little stay in the pod?"

John Sheppard was eyeing him warily. He was sure he was the first superior officer the kid had to report to, who was sitting on a bed nearby dangling his legs over the edge with no apparent concern in the world. Well, he was secure in his position enough he didn't have to play power games with a subordinate. Besides, proper military procedures sometimes gave him heart-burn. He preferred to avoid them both when he could.

"Carson tells me I'm quite well healed physically. Thank you, Sir. And he says that I'll need to go for a psych evaluation before he can release me for active duty. I'm not quite sure where to go from there, Sir?"

The kid managed to end the statement in a question and gave him an expectant stare.

"You're in luck because that is why I am here. Well, that and to make sure people here are behaving themselves in general."

Expectant stare turned into a slightly bewildered expression.

"If you are up to it, I will take you back with me to civilization to get you up to date in the know-how of things and what you have tangled yourself up in. Also you can tell us what happened to you back in Afghanistan, before we found you. You know-a proper debrief and such. We can take care of your psych evals there and whatever follow-ups Carson will insist on. I'll be here overnight and be leaving at noon tomorrow. So what do you say?"

The kid agreed politely because O'Neill wasn't really asking. Dr. Beckett gave his grudging consent to release him after extracting promises of getting Sheppard a full medical evaluation the moment they reached the mountain. The doctor also had some budding aspirations about getting Sheppard wrangled in his gene therapy research. Jack took an inordinate amount of pleasure squishing those at the neck. While he was sure that the good doctor would never cross any lines into human experimentation, he always felt that Carson could be quite intense when it came to his gene therapy research.

Feeling quite satisfied about the good deed he had done for the day, namely rescuing Sheppard, he left the infirmary in search of food. Near death experiences always left him starving and he needed ample sustenance before he had to break the news to the natives that he was taking their prize away for a while...

[techexonerate-blog]

Iceland will have accomplished something no other nation has: tried 10 percent of its populace for coronavirus, a figure far higher than anyplace else on the planet.

No nation or researcher or specialist has all the appropriate responses about the pandemic that has cleared the globe, murdering in any event 100,000 individuals.

Be that as it may, a few spots, for example, modest Iceland, Europe's most meagerly populated nation - populace 364,134 - might be better set to convey a few sorts of coronavirus data, and even replies, than most, in any event for the time being, as indicated by general wellbeing specialists.

"The size of a spot matters. It follows the quantity of presentations of the infection. It is no occurrence the spots presently doing (the best work) share this element," said William Hanage, a disease transmission specialist at Harvard College's T N Chan School of General Wellbeing.

All things considered, Iceland has not yet had the option to give complete clarifications to the most squeezing coronavirus questions vexing researchers, government officials and publics the world over.

Among them: its transmissibility; why it hits a few people astoundingly hard and influences others just gently; the most encouraging immunizations and medicines; genuine death rates; and in the case of lifting lockdowns will later attendant in a dangerous second and third flood of new contaminations - if the purported coronavirus bend, truth be told, looks progressively like a circle.

Hanage said as far as enduring examination models for our comprehension of the infection it's likewise not satisfactory for to what extent size will matter to wellbeing specialists testing the ailment.

All things considered, for the present, Iceland might be one of best live coronavirus labs we have, as indicated by Kari Stefansson, an Icelandic nervous system specialist and CEO of Reykjavik-based biopharmaceutical organization Unravel hereditary qualities, which has joined forces with Iceland's administration to complete its massing testing endeavors.

Iceland's 10 percent figure, affirmed by Stefansson, isn't tied in with boasting rights.

Among the Nordic country's discoveries: about portion of its populace at some random time who have coronavirus however don't have any acquaintance with it, will be asymptomatic - an enormous rate numerous specialists considering the infection have suspected, yet have had minimal firm information to substantiate.

"That is somewhat terrifying," said Stefansson, who noticed that Iceland is trying its residents at arbitrary by choosing names out of the nation's principle phone catalog, another enormous scope testing technique that has not been embraced somewhere else.

"They could be spreading it and not knowing it," he said.

Iceland has not forced a full national lockdown.

Its limitations are to a great extent dependent on trust. Most shops and organizations are as yet open.

Be that as it may, the nation has restricted social occasions of in excess of 20 individuals. Of Iceland's more than 1,600 coronavirus diseases as of April 10, six have finished in passings.

Like different areas, for example, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong that have tolerably estimated populaces and generally little topographies, Iceland has demonstrated fruitful at "smoothing the bend" - keeping the quantity of coronavirus contaminations at a sensible level for clinical laborers who might some way or another be overpowered with wiped out patients.

For Iceland's situation, it has done this through a mix of thorough testing and following. Specialists state Icelanders are regarding social separating suggestions.

Stefansson said Iceland's randomized tests uncovered that between 0.3 to 0.8 percent of Iceland's populace is tainted with the respiratory ailment, that around 50 percent of the individuals who test positive for the infection are asymptomatic when they are tried, and that since mid-Walk the recurrence of the infection among Iceland's all inclusive community who are not at the most serious hazard - the individuals who don't have basic wellbeing conditions or signs and side effects of COVID-19 - has either remained stable or been diminishing.

This information has yielded, he stated, yet more information.

"It implies the regulation endeavors of the specialists are working," he said.

While numerous nations distribute every day and total contamination and passing rates, there don't have all the earmarks of being tantamount insights for different countries accessible that give a general feeling of how profound established the infection is, or what number of bearers of the ailment, at some random time, may have no side effects. Iceland has not yet had the option to decide what number of asymptomatic contaminations, when affirmed, will later proceed to create side effects.

John P An Ioannidis, an educator biomedical information science and the study of disease transmission at Stanford College, said that the "best information" on coronavirus is at present originating from Iceland. In any case, that might be incompletely in light of the fact that Iceland is the main nation that has so much information, regardless of whether it's too soon to reach unequivocal inferences about what the information are stating.

A few nations, for example, Germany, have anticipated that up to 70 percent of their nationals could inevitably contract coronavirus. What's more, authorities at the US Habitats for Illness Control and Anticipation have said that under a most dire outcome imaginable, between 160 million and 214 million individuals in the US - 48 to 64 percent of Americans - could be gotten tainted through the span of the plague, despite the fact that those numbers don't represent different social-removing measures in progress planned for easing back transmission rates.

Gestur Palmason, a police criminologist conveyed as a coronavirus "contact tracer" at Iceland's National Emergency Coordination, said scarcely any different spots would have the assets or fortunate mix of components to do Iceland's starter examine.

These incorporate the island-country's remoteness, the high respect its nationals have for logical ability - clinical specialists, not legislators, are driving its reaction - its well informed government foundation, a moderately attempted and tried crisis organization that is accustomed to managing spring of gushing lava emissions and torrential slides, and indeed, less individuals.

"Scale is significant yet in addition for reasons you may not at first think," Palmason said.

"The littler the populace you have the more possibility there is you will know somebody who is influenced.

"Whatever your legislature or law implementation might be stating, you are considerably more prone to need to have an impact and pay attention to proposals as a result of that individual association - contrasted with places where there are a huge number of individuals and you might not have been to parts of the nation or know individuals there."

In any case, Wang Ting-yu, a Taiwanese administrator who has been dynamic in the East Asia island-state's tremendously respected reaction to its coronavirus flare-up, said that while he was watching Iceland's investigation with mass testing and information with premium - taking note of that Taiwan has likewise turned out islandwide coronavirus screening - he felt that other western nations in Europe and North America would be in an ideal situation at this phase of their battle with the infection by receiving a "war time" attitude to battle the flare-up.

This implies, Wang stated, carefully authorized isolates, ensuring cutting edge laborers with the most exceptional individual defensive gear and an entire of-government way to deal with keeping the open educated about lockdowns, mishaps, any adjustments in strategies and, essentially, creating customized innovation to convey this data.

Taiwan has a comparable populace to Australia - around 24 million individuals. Both are islands, despite the fact that Taiwan's populace thickness is far higher. As of April 10, Australia has recorded more than 6,100 coronavirus cases and 53 passings. Taiwan has 382 cases and 6 passings.

In New Zealand, where a forced a tight lockdown technique is focused on absolutely dispensing with the infection as opposed to simply containing it, there has been only 2 passings in the midst of in excess of 1200 cases.

"Our message to our companions abroad is: unify your reaction," Wang said. "In the event that you don't move rapidly, or with enough reason, at that point the cost is people groups' lives."

Governments from Rome to Berlin have shown that day by day new coronavirus contaminations and losses of life might be almost there even as of now be beginning to level or fall because of social separating measures. In the US, the White House has made comparable cases.

Singapore, Hong Kong and even China, where coronavirus started in December a year ago and specialists have everything except guaranteed absolute triumph over Covid-19, have in the interim seen rising bunches of new diseases as of late.

While the vast majority of these cases are imported, it stays hazy whether by lifting limitations specialists around the globe will be constrained into a round of coronavirus whackamole with no conspicuous end date.

Over the most recent couple of days Japan, which at first held off on a lockdown, has braced its limitations.

The US has to a great extent depended on an interwoven of social removing measures and lockdowns directed at state level, while the Trump organization has offered government direction that isn't obligatory to follow.

In excess of 468,000 individuals in the US have been tainted with coronavirus and the quantity of passings - more than 16,600 - shows up on target to before long match or outperform Italy, where the vast majority - more than 18,000 - have kicked the bucket.

In any case, as far as gathering noteworthy information about coronavirus, Hange, the Harvard disease transmission expert, addressed whether Iceland would be in an ideal situation concentrating on serological tests that could decide if an individual had built up specific antibodies in the blood demonstrating that they were contaminated by the infection without knowing it, and recouped.

Knowing whether these antibodies exist in somebody's blood could, possibly, empower a huge number of individuals around the globe to reemerge the workforce at a time economies are reeling in light of the fact that they are compelled to remain at home to forestall the infection's spread.

"Irregular testing for continuous diseases helps however runs into a great deal of issues," Hanage said.

"In the event that you discover somebody is sure and asymptomatic now, you despite everything need to hold up until they have recuperated to know the course of their ailment," he included, taking note of that a few reports out of Italy demonstrate that the most truly influenced towns in the country's Lombardy locale show an enormous part of the populace with indications of resistance.

"In the event that genuine this is clearly an awesome sign, yet it has come at a horrifying cost," he said.

[sincerelybillie]

Longer Than Most Marriages

That’s what I hear the most. About how long this has lasted. And as if marriage hasn’t come up and pregnancy scares haven’t manifested into something that forced me to become a better long-term planner than someone with depression can sometimes even be. I think I’ve had my one Big Love. I realize it more in moments of traumatic flashbacks and fresher, newer, more recent abuse. But I definitely knew it was a Big Love when I first felt it, as a teenager turning everything into poetry and playlists. Though that girl has barely changed.

Once I had been treated bad, then good, it made me feel the pain of having been treated bad in a different way. Even if I was already grieving the years I lost and unraveling the twisted ideas planted in my young brain that hardened me into a clay pot that breaks much easier than it was built and can’t grow anything that doesn’t die quickly... the brain that had my processed good, healthy love was also processing your sadness and resentment that I didn’t get it sooner. 

Having it bad isn’t a prerequisite to deserve good. It is not the only thing that can teach us to appreciate or nurture someone and the love you share with them, as if some polar opposite experience has to be the singular source of perspective. You’re justifying your own hell at that point. 

What I learn every year initially makes me deeply uncomfortable, and starts with a series of triggers that I have to muddle through (tightness in my throat, tears pouring down my face, soaking my shirt, and swelling my eyes, and genuinely believing the only way out of this situation and feeling is killing myself).

On the other side of that horrific tunnel, I have always made it out alive, more empathetic, and more reasonable. Better, kinder, more useful, more honest. I still get Bad Brain. I still lose my temper. I still have nightmares and panic attacks. And I still haven’t quite figured out how to completely cut off the people who continue to invalidate, gaslight, and abuse me, and then tell me I am playing victim. 

I’m not playing. It’s not a role I claim or pretend to be. It was imposed on me, assigned, without consent or remorse or accountability. I know I am a victim because I know they are perpetrators and I know what they have done to me. The fact that they have been victims and experienced trauma themselves does not give them a pass. Statistically, it gives them motive and/or mental health disorders. It also does not impress me if they endured more and didn’t “complain” as much as I am by talking about it as much as I do (which still isn’t very much and is still relatively ambiguous for safety reasons). 

They won’t get therapy, they won’t tell people the truth, and they threaten me if I discuss anything that might link them to the events that have harmed me physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, psychologically and sexually. I have little control over their response, values, or sense of humanity.

I also know I am a survivor. Some days, I don’t feel like that because I am still keeping secrets, I still live in fear in certain spaces, and I still haven’t sought legal action against the crimes committed against me by multiple people. I’m just this person who has been set off fire, had my entire body damaged inside and out, and continues to walk around and live life. That’s supposed to be badass, maybe. But sometimes, it’s frustrating and depressing to have become that charred, scarred thing. Even if people do praise you for being brave or strong. I didn’t want to be known as those things, while keeping their causes a secret. I didn’t want that secret to be the price I paid to become those things, especially became I became other less admirable things, too. And the price came with interest. 

Whether I talk about it today, have been slowly talking about it in a little more detail over time, or whether I mention it in 20 years, I know I will be met with skepticism, shame, or disrespect, more so than I have received it now. It has discouraged me and hurt me and made me want to not even bother, stop trying before even starting to seek justice.

 I can’t put everyone who’s done something heinous to me behind bars or in the ground because I am not the one who serves justice, acts on my rage violently, or honestly has financial resources or time to focus on that person or person(s) enough. I don’t know what justice or reparations would even look like because I have gotten so used to navigating the world with the hand I was dealt, or creating physical distance from that hand as my only escape/solution because the law or the culture wasn’t designed for me to get much else if I was even lucky enough to get to leave.

The kindest thing I did for myself was invest in a relationship that was good for me, in a person who was good to me, and take care of it as a friendship and relationship for over ten years. I consider art to be so important in my healing too, but this person and relationship allowed me to blossom as a writer and as an artist, and often provided seemingly endless inspiration. Positive inspiration, as I didn’t have to draw from my hurt or reveal to people in moments of vulnerability or over sharing - whichever it was at the time - that I have had my mind, body, and spirit rattled by intense, unforgettable trauma. And look, I can do something creative with that trauma and sell my sadness. 

Today, I am so much more affirmative in both my relationships with people and in my art. I celebrate more than I mourn, which wasn’t happening before. It’s like going on a writer’s retreat in a jumpy castle. Or doing something as simple but significant as sending people you care about cards just because you want to, as opposed to being in a prison and only using your creative passions for escapism so you didn’t go crazy or kill yourself.

I was in very dangerous, toxic, and regrettable environments and relationships before and even after (for familiarity) the one I shared that I can actually be proud of and am deeply fond of. I had to acknowledge how cruel and ugly I had become because of what I learned and picked up and accepted as the way I was going to handle and survive relationships. 

But I got to unravel, cry, and grow up in a safe and healthy space to do so, with someone who was patient and compassionate and taught me an unmatched level of unconditional love. I did not take it for granted, knowing they deserved the best from me too and weren’t in service to my growth just because I was some fucked up thing they ended up loving somehow (though I was confused, self sabotaged, and hurt them in the beginning). It wasn’t their choice to like or love me, but it was their choice to stay, and I wanted to honour that. 

I wanted to earn and maintain what I had been so lucky to have found and been given, and even when we weren’t together, I wanted to be good for the sake of being good.

I wouldn’t say this means I won’t fall in love with anyone ever again because it will be and has been different and meaningful in other ways to love others and enter a variety of platonic, romantic, and sexual relationships from my teens to my mid 20’s. I had to be careful not to assign so much significance to the healthiest, best thing I had ever had (so far, at the time) that I became close minded to anyone or anything else. 

I do, however, stand by the sentiment of knowing I have had my one Big Love. Maybe if you check back in a year from now, I will have experienced something even more transformational and radically uplifting. I haven’t said that in the ten years I am talking about so it seems unlikely based off history, but I’m still open to the possibility. 

I just think about people who talk about all the heartaches it takes to find the one or even the divorces that happen before someone meets their soulmate, and how I have mixed feelings about monogamy, and I am only 24, and I took what, like one sociology class on marriage and family? And I have gained so much more language and understanding about what I want and who I am, so really, what the hell ultimate conclusion could I possibly come to at this point in my life? 

But I shouldn’t discredit the experience and knowledge I gained with my Big Love, especially because I experienced it during such developmental years as a teenager in high school, young adult in college, and well into my post grad life and now, wow, the age where I’ve been around for a quarter of a century.

I am forever thankful for my Big Love. I got it so young, among other experiences that shaped me as a child and adolescent. Amidst absolute chaos and hopelessness and feelings that I was getting shortchanged from the whole goddamn universe, I still had my talent, my soul, and people who loved me and allowed those things to flourish more than they could in other spaces among other individuals.

It’s hard (but still possible and does occur) to be mad at the world when the same one did give you something so special. I don’t find the trade off fair to be honest, but I don’t get a say in that, and despite my lingering youthful wishes, I can’t change the past.

I do get a say in who I become, how I respond, and how well I love. I deserve to be, do, and have the best. That’s what my Big Love taught me. So, now, I love big. 

[greeksouvenirsbyaz]

replies

many and long, so:

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your post “replies”

I'm such a bad follower ;-). I must catch up with your writing. Always had just time for a quick like. I must read and give proper feedback. I know you deserve!

Thank you for following the story anyways! It’s quite lovely of you to even mention that you don’t have time to read... And I would love to have you as a reader, too, and hear what you think about the plot and characters... But take your time to do as you wish dear!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “At the sound of the racks crashing the boy stopped, just under the...”

No - but that is your wish Andreas, to make time stand still so as to behold the vision a while longer. I feel you, kid.

There is an eternal quality to time (and space, and light) and I sometimes seem to detect it a lot stronger when I am in Greece... But yes, Andreas does enjoy looking at Konstantinos, and is mentally photographing this moment!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “What?” < previous     ||     next >”

Oh he's irresistible! And a little cocky! GET HIM ANDREAS!!

I’m sort of proud of having created this boy, do enjoy his looks a lot! 

Andreas would be a little embarrassed with the encouragement, for he is slow in such matters...

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “How could someone so young be so blasé? Not effortlessly, Andreas...”

"Home with you" Is the answer we all need here!!!

Yes, but where is home here? Andreas doesn’t have a home anymore, and we know nothing about the boy’s life yet... Oh, you mean they should do it! But then any alley would do, right? ;)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Work?”  So obvious it were that the boy answered Andreas with another...”

That is the perfect pose for this rebuke!

This is a lovely pose @starsha-sims!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “And my bag?” Andreas insisted. He finally identified across the...”

Cock-blocked by the Uncle. Typical! (Just teasing lol)

Haha, I had to look the term up on a slang dictionary to see what it meant... Hum, is Uncle Alcandros that powerful as to own Konstantinos? Or is he maybe the boy’s pimp?

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Andreas shook the rack he still held behind him, and the sudden noise...”

You have nothing to lose Andreas. Do it!!

I remember telling this to myself just too often, and still feeling unable to act on my desire... :/

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Halting once more, the boy turned only his upper body towards Andreas....”

Never mind what Dev would have said - you say what you feel Andreas!

Dev sounds like an imaginary friend of Andreas, doesn’t it?

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “I live here.” Again, the answer – followed by a shrug – being so...”

I think he is playing it cool - or hard to get? :D

Whatever Konstantinos is doing, he is deeply affecting Andreas, so it must be just the right thing to do! The boy is a natural seducer! 

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “The boy was about to turn around again, resume his way, closing their...”

Let's hope he is genuine and doesn't see Andreas as a cash-cow

Another term I had not previously heard of, but that I understood right away! It sounds somehow sexy to describe someone that way... Cow... milk... milking... sucking... oops!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “The bells of the neighboring church and their echoing around the walls...”

He will clearly stand out in a crowd Andreas. Don't worry!

Do you really think so, my friend? Andreas is asking you, begging for confirmation, biting his pouting lips... The idea of not seeing that boy again makes Andrea regret being so slow, so clumsy...

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “The Three Graces. The three scorched graces, though – and not very...”

Agree with @simblu​ Watch it boy!

Let’s hope Andreas has taken some lessons of self-defense! (for he doesn’t seem the type who has been in fights often)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “His mood immediately brightened and, as if becoming just then aware of...”

I'm glad he has his senses back - for now. Great reading, as always! Loving it!

Thank you soooo muuuch for reading the story, dear!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “But the exchange between the three boys and the old porter did not...”

'Malakia Dickheads' is what I am hoping Andreas has learned. Mutter that to yourself Lad!! :D

Andreas is so thrilled when you call him lad... Else, he is incapable of swearing!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “That he had not spotted a single policeman, and instead kept bumping...”

**Passes the boys the Penis & Height Slider Mod** There ya go lads - go play and be happy about life!

(Because I get the impression that their ego's are bigger than them!)

Haha! Maybe it’s the perspective in the pictures? They are smaller than Andreas, but not that much small :D

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Slightly aware that his stare might have turned into ogle – that they...”

Oh shit! I didn't know that @simblu​ I would have took it as begging and offered them some Vape Oil :D :D :D

Vape Oil? I had to Google that too! :D

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Cigarettes?” A token, a fee – like they were the toll booth to the...”

Oh my! This is the first time I have noticed the prominence of that tattoo outlined above THAT Stitch on his pants. . . How very... VISUAL! :D

(Also, I am glad I noticed! lol)

I did mention that tattoo previously, in this post, where it did not show, though... I am glad you noticed it, and am not so sure other people have... They will, when Andreas heads to the beaches...

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “I… don’t smoke.” Andreas affirmed – without much conviction –, upon...”

Stand up for yourself Andreas! They are just kids - BE CONFIDENT!

Oh dear, Andreas is NOT confident at all... but thank you for cheering him up and encouraging him anyway!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “I… don’t smoke.” Andreas affirmed – without much conviction –, upon...”

Ahh SHIT! Went to click Next. Cried.

It took just a week or so between updates, for I am trying to post LoSSS in between those, but I am still sorry to keep you waiting!

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photo “Slightly aware that his stare might have turned into ogle – that they...”

And yet, the boys look absolutely hot!

Hot... under the sun? :D

I know, and they enjoy your compliment, though!

lifeasasim replied to your photo “Not meant as the trick he had tried with Konstantinos, Andreas...”

"Foul fart" hahaha

I hope that is an appropriate expression...

lifeasasim replied to your photo “Oh, parakalo!” Andreas exclaimed, unsure to be using the right word...”

Rude >:(

They are, aren’t they? Let’s hope Andreas does not fall in love with them just because of their rudeness ;)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Not meant as the trick he had tried with Konstantinos, Andreas...”

Was 'Gay Friendly' even a term back then? I don't know how underground it all was. Wasn't this in the 80's did you say?

This is the mid to end of the 1990s as mentioned here, and LGB ( as well as gay friendly) was a term already in use since the beginning of the 1990s. 

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “No, it’s left.” Answered the boy in red – bearing the uniform of some...”

Hopefully - glad to help! And how brave Andreas was to ask them like that - they could easily beat him up on their assumptions of his sexuality!

He seems to prefer to trust these thugs than the old porter, that he disliked from the start... Andreas, I fear, is not always the best judge of characters... Though he doesn’t seem to fear violence from that source -- his sexuality, I mean --, and is more concerned about being robbed!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Oh, parakalo!” Andreas exclaimed, unsure to be using the right word...”

Well that was a lot easier than it could have become! Nice one for making it out of there in one piece Andy!!

simblu replied to your photo “A deep breath for each step taking him past the boys, and away from...”

Quite the surprise.. I thought for certain it was going to go another way

I’m answering both @declarations-of-drama and @simblu in the same reply because it’s on the same topic...

Andreas has brought his metropolitan life neurosis with him to the island, so that several of his perceptions are tainted with that, and rarely correspond to the reality... He was super afraid of something that was simply never going to happen, though he kept seeing indications that it would!

[ahaviel-selah]

EMDR #4

April 5, 2017

My nervous system was already so ramped up, we did about half EMDR and half Somatic Experiencing (SE), to bring me out of a full-blown hypervigilant state and into something more balanced and grounded.

Again, I was surprised at what came up during the EMDR portion. I felt hurt and anger, then betrayal, as I suddenly flashed on my brother reaching out to me in the mid-90s via email, during a time when it was not safe for me to have contact with my parents. I was careful about what I shared with him, but I believed him to be genuinely caring. 

In 2009, I learned that he was no such thing: he took everything I'd said to him and passed it along to my parents. My mom built a friggin' file on me.I further found New Year's letters my mom had written to extended family about how sick I was to have turned my back on my family. It was during that time in the mid-90s that my parents discovered "False Memory Syndrome," in which countless cases of child abuse and recovered memories were dismissed as having been "implanted" by therapists seeking long-term clients and their fees. Despite having owned up to much of what they did, and despite my having remembered most of the abuse all my life (and not "recovered" any of it) my parents latched onto FMS and doubled-down on their gaslighting of me. 

When the founder of the FMS Foundation was later found to have lied about the abuse HE was accused of, and witnesses testified that it did indeed happen, my parents didn't care. They told anyone who would listen, including extended family and family friends, that I was sick, delusional, seeking attention, ungrateful, vengeful, and not to be trusted.

In the EMDR session, I had a vision that I was in a maze of some sort. Never-ending hallways and closed doorways, all at right angles, all looking alike, with no clues on how to get out. Hiding around every corner, and behind every door, were nameless, faceless people who believed what my parents and my brother had told them, who would attack me without provocation. I was unarmed, defenseless. My legs felt wobbly and weak, my hands were sore and could barely clench. I couldn't run or fight. I was alone.

After a couple of eye-movement repetitions, my mind's eye zoomed out, revealing that the maze was only one part of a larger scene. I was no longer *in* the maze, but looking down at it. I still felt trapped, however, like some part of me -- a past me -- was still trying to find a safe way out.It was at this point that we began the SE portion, trying to get my breathing back to normal instead of the barely-there shallow breaths I've long-trained myself to take (so no one would hear me and I could hide and be safe). My body was tensed so tight it hurt. I couldn't move my fingers or toes.

At one point in this calming process, it occurred to me that it took more strength to go from ramped up to calm than it did to stay in the ramped up state. Heidi (the therapist) had me focusing on a part of me that felt warm and soft and comforting. It was that ball of light I've mentioned in past sessions, somewhere just above my solar plexus, radiating into my heart.

My attention drifted outward as I sought out my guides, or anyone else who might help, and I immediately felt a warm energy pulsing around me, enveloping me, inviting me to relax into it. I trusted that feeling and fully relaxed, feeling it supporting all of me. Then I suddenly smelled cake. Birthday cake or cupcakes. I said as much to Heidi, wondering if maybe someone else in the clinic was microwaving something, or had brought something in. She didn't smell it, but it was STRONG. I didn't see how she could NOT smell it. She suggested maybe it was whomever was supporting me. (The fangirl part of me inhaled the cake smell again and said, "Must be Gabriel.")

I was afraid that maybe I wouldn't get an affirmation this time, since we temporarily abandoned the EMDR in favor of calming down my nervous system. But as Heidi was talking to me about what she had noticed during the session, another image popped up in my mind and drowned out what she was saying.

I was back in the maze, feeling that fear and uncertainty of what was ahead, knowing only that those who sought to do me harm were numerous. And then without warning, I had an army of others behind me. My new family, friends, loved ones, my guides, and others I didn't even recognize, who were there for me. One came up to me and said, "You stay here until we've cleared a path. Don't worry; we've got this." And then in two columns, one on either side of me, dozens upon dozens filed past, opening doors and peeking around corners and then motioning me forward until we were out of the maze.

I turned to Heidi and explained what I'd just experienced, then said, "I have resources." I'd known that, on an intellectual level, but this time, with the maze, with the fear about how anyone could attack me at anytime from anywhere, I truly felt it. I have resources: not just people, but skills and and tools and organizations and infrastructure and guides and, and, and.

So we closed with the new affirmation, "I have resources" with a couple rounds of affirming EMDR.

Again, it left me exhausted, and there is some residual fear about being attacked for even suggesting that my childhood and even adulthood around my family-of-origin was anything less than perfect. But I have this new experience of relaxing into that support (and CAKE!) and seeing all the people who would willingly scout out the maze so that I could pass through safely, and knowing that I don't have to do this all on my own. I have resources.

*****

P.S. Weird dreams again. This time being met by a masked man in the basement laundry room (as I was doing a ridiculously overwhelming amount of laundry) and saying I had 60 seconds to get out before he lit the house -- and me -- on fire. I crawled out of a basement window, damaging my knees in the process, then managed to run back in the house through the front door to grab the (1980's era) telephone with its long, long wall cord and run back outside again. I called 911 and three times, managed to give the wrong address (where I grew up ages 0-10), despite looking right at the address on the curbside mailbox.

I managed to finally give the correct address (where I grew up ages 10-17) and my dad came out of the house. I rushed into his arms, grateful he was okay. Then he grinned at me and pulled out the mask of the man who threatened me in the laundry room, and I realized they were one and the same.

Return to master post.

[cobrbos]

Danse Macabre

Full Moon Journal #1 - 10 May 2017 - Scorpio 20° - Three of Swords

This most recent moon cycle has been a very tumultuous time in my life. Two weeks ago everything was ungrounded, I was floating thinly upon assumptions, hopes; fears of approaching, unmet deadlines. My current home--the first place in ages that has really felt home-like--was coming to a necessary close. My sister-in-law is in the third trimester of her first pregnancy, and my room (or, perhaps better, “the room I’m staying in”?) is the nursery to be. In just two or three short months, there will be a new generation of life, of blood family, screaming and defecating itself to occasional slumber right in the very place of the bed on which I’m now resting, writing this moon journal. It’s surreal! One doesn’t ever really feel the whole weight of a generation having passed until the next one is born. And this is the first fresh blood of this next generation: ~The first born son of the first born son in the direct line of descendancy~ 

There’s this great ominous and overwhelming power attached to this new life that is coming, and it is right as my grandfather, the patriarch of the family, is phasing out (congestive heart failure, kidney failure, etc. and all almost all of a sudden). In my family, there are so many bloodlines butting heads. I’m the last in a line that married and subjected a long matriarchal tradition to an overpowering and societally-reinforced patriarchal one, though I inherited seemingly both in equal parts. I was raised on family views that immortality was attained through the persistence and propagation of ~The Main Bloodline~ which myself and my two blood siblings are the last carriers of in our generation. With my brother’s coming child, the family’s aspiration is coming to meaningful fruition, eyes twinkling, bones creaking in their ageing joints. My father, my grandfather, and his fathers before him all breathe out collectively in relief as they come ever closer to that elusive eternal endpoint of true immortality, countless generations of spirits floating along like vessels in our ~Pure~ and unwavering, professedly masculine bloodline, coursing like an arrow through time unending. Our blood bears stories, magic, metaphor, and tradition in dynamic forms and bonding pairs from one generation to the next. 

This child and I have some sort of an incredibly powerful and inexplicable bond, and I just can’t shake the feeling that I will have to play an ever more important role in their coming days and years of life. My sister-in-law, the mother of the developing child, has revolutionized and shaken up my entire family order. She has taken the reins of our traditionally patriarchally-ruled and oppressed family and whipped it into submission. She is better educated, more critically self aware, more empowered, more open to constructive, progressive, positive changes in stance and perspective towards life. She and my brother are one of the only instances I’ve encountered of parents who seem genuinely ready to raise a child of their own, and to raise that child well. Their bond has danced through all the traditional inherited dances, though with an eye to the present, an eye to change for the better. She has kept her last name and made sure that power dynamics are balanced and well-thought-out, especially as concerns her relationship to her partner, her family, her in-laws (my family), and the way all of them/us relate to her and my brother’s imminent child. As the first grandchild in both her family and my brother’s, the surviving grandparents are descending upon the scene like blood-crazed falcons, hawks homing in on their next blood/brainwash victim of choice. She has advocated for this child in more clever and unrelenting ways than I’m quite sure I knew one could. Meanwhile, I have been in the (rather close) periphery all this time. When I graduated college was when they first started attempting conception. My sister-in-law and I went on a trip to celebrate my graduation and had to be extra careful in case the latest conception attempt stuck. Then, fast-forward to last autumn: I came back to Maine--the land of my childhood--for the first time truly of my own volition, and it was through them and their portal that I found myself able to do so. I ended up moving back to Maine shortly thereafter, moving in to their animal sanctuary farm in the rolling countryside hills and valleys of this rugged, glacial, temperamental land. The time of my moving in, as fate would have it, coincided with when their many and concerted efforts to conceive were to finally bear fruit. There was life that took hold in her uterus and womb leading into the very week (the precise date is of course impossible to know for sure) that they rescued me from a difficult place and provided safe passage to and shelter in their home’s nursery room-to-be. Two weeks from now (the end of this moon cycle, consequently) will mark my having lived here officially 6 full months. The child is scheduled sometime between the last week of July and mid-late August, but children always come and go on their own schedule, and this child has already revealed themself to be both stubborn and insistently self-aware, so I don’t doubt they will only exit their current gestation-period when they feel most content to do so. 

Earlier in my stay I remember watching Arrival, a recent film, with no prior context leading up to my initial viewing. It revealed itself to be about the way unborn children communicate with the world outside their own, with their mother and those others who might speak and act in its proximity. I remember speaking with my sister-in-law around then (she is a child behavioral and developmental psychologist working with the elementary school age-range of kids especially) about the studies that have been done showing that children form many of their strongest, pre-linguistic proto-bonds with those who communicate with and around them during their initial gestation period. Arrival too was about this: the way we communicate with fetuses, the things we can communicate, the product of those (intentional or otherwise, and almost always somewhat blundering if overthought) interactions. Obviously the mother spends the most time around the child, and so an unbreakable sort of bond is forever placed in their blood and spirit, that between birth-mother and child. My brother is certainly the second highest, as they all sleep and eat together every day they’re not separated by business or otherwise. But third highest, we realized, is actually me--and by a considerable amount too! If you consider the amount of time and words I have shared with my sister-in-law and my nephew(?)-to-be, I might even be competing with my brother, as I have spent many long hours talking heart-to-heart with my sister-in-law. For me, these past 6 months have been so much about processing healing, recovery, reconciliation of me with myself, with my heritage, with my upbringing, with my birthplace. All of these things I ran away from when I graduated high school. I flew from Maine and family, ecstatic with a sort of non-joyous, fear-fueled elation. I ran and kept running all the years since, all the way up to now. I stopped running by returning here this past Thanksgiving season. I decided to confront my depression critically, compassionately, seriously by doing some in-earnest gardening of the blood, body, and spirit grounds of my person and incidence. There have been a lot of dead and dried up root-matter from weeds long-dying-off that had spent years strangling the creeping crawling vines of sturdy and resilient rose bushes. These roses, in brilliant reds, whites, blues, purples--radiant hues of spirit and flesh, tradition and tale--were just waiting to be made free, to be given their space to properly flourish and stretch out in every direction, climbing up towards an ever-closer true ascendance of dwelling. I have learned natural rhythms, routines, and orders, and come to terms with many of them. I’ve been in a gestation period of my own, alongside that of this upcoming child. We’ve been developing together, developing each other, in the same home, in the same family, showering each other with love, support, and affirmation as we survive one developmental hurdle to the next as we claw our way towards the light of the World Outside. There are so many metaphors here I start to lose sight of them all! Such is the bond of love and family that this next generation’s first child and I have spent so much meaningful time forging, largely unaware and not-necessarily-intended. This child knows my voice and my spirit better than most anyone else--and they’re not even born yet! 

The point of tension--and so then also motivation--in my situation has been that of needing to move out of my room by mid-May. My sister-in-law and brother need to begin prepping, painting, reforming the room from Guest room into Nursery room. We’re going to paint the walls in woodland greens, browns, soft blues and grays. There will be trees, animals, birds, a mountain, sun and stars and moon, glowing at night and hidden by day. We are going to imbue the walls, the very bones of this space with a loving cosmos, bright and knowable, compassionate and caring. My brother and sister-in-law will have time to themselves to mentally prepare for a month or two. And then the child will arrive, and nothing will ever be the same again. 

For a long while, I knew I was going to have to leave but had no idea where I was going to end up. I’ve moved some eight, nine times in the last 6 years. I’m weary of it, to be honest. Every time I slough off more and more layers of my repression and earthly possessions (symbols of repressions), uncovering vulnerable stems and stalks and freshly supple roots begging to take hold in a still-somewhat-nutrient-deficient soil. I came back to Maine with the intent to not run away from it again. I’m sure I would and will leave it some time in the future, but not until I’m truly /ready/ to leave--and when I do decide to leave, it will be in a way that is progressive and productive, rather than regressive and recursive. I also came back to Maine because I knew my first book needed to go about its publication process while I was here. As has been the case with this novel and publishing process to-date, every aspect always takes longer (much longer) than I’d ever even thought remotely possible. I thought for sure I would have it most of the way out of my hands by the end of my 6-month stay here on this farm populated solely by rescue animals (myself included). And yet here I am, certainly closer meaningfully along the way, but ultimately not effectively or pragmatically much closer than where I was some six odd months ago. There are still so many obstacles, blockages, hurdles, repressions that I feel are obfuscating my most necessary truths and paths. Every time I peel back another veil I think it /must/ be the last, only to uncover still more and more layers, and of seemingly increasing gravity and severity. There is definite elation in this process of recovery and revelation, but it is onerous and seemingly unending. At some point, I feel, I /must/ be able to move forward with my book. Surely it won’t be when all the veils are pierced, but when sufficiently many have been in order to clarify my goals, intent, and purpose in my project. I still have a hard time articulating, really, any of those things in any consistent and eloquent, concise way. It’s like grasping at falling grains of sand, when what I should probably be doing is finding a vessel to place beneath the stream. A vessel large enough to contain each of the grains as they fall, piling up into an impossibly overbearing pyramid of stacking proteins, crystals, bits of hail and lonely wheat germs. I know I’m somehow close, proximal to my point and purpose, and yet I still keep missing the mark. What am I not seeing? Where/how can I shift and modify, renew my perspective so that I might catch sight of, at last, the bigger picture? If not all of it, then at least enough of the landscape to finally ~Get It~ sufficiently as to let me proceed and move on from this redepurgatory? 

At some point, I think I knew that my purpose at this farm was truly none other than gestational recovery and reformation. I needed to stop trying to grow and change in the way I wanted, and instead allow the world to grow and change me in the way(s) it knew I needed. I’ve always had a safeguard from worrying about over-recovery, or stagnation of purpose, because of the incoming child and the need to set up the nursery room in which I have been sleeping, body and spirit renewing in weighty anticipation for the time to come. So I needed to stop worrying about losing sight of everything and instead allow myself to work on what I would only be able to work on in the time and place I was provided at the farm, living as I was among affirming and supportive, non-shaming family members and other traumatized, healing animals trying to find their way, their happiness, their sense of purpose and ease of movement through life. I decided, then, that I would have to stay in Maine even after my time in the country came to an end. But that I would stay in Maine on my own terms. That I would move to the city in which I was born and yet have never truly lived: Portland. 

About two weeks ago I finally found my place in Portland. It was a lovely home, third floor of a three-story building. It was, magically and mysteriously, the exact right price, and on the exact block I envisioned living on when I first looked at a map of the city and pointed to the spot I would most like to live. Talk about manifestation! And if there were ever a clearer sign that this was ~The Place~, I don’t think I’d be able to believe it real. In fact, I hardly believed this place real either! The price point was almost 33% below market value, and in a desirable, perfectly downtown, on-peninsula location, less than a 20 minute walk to anything and anywhere one would want to go in the area. It seemed truly too good to not be just smoke and mirrors. And yet it kept becoming more and more possible, and real, and imminent. The beginning of this moon cycle saw at last the entrance of my Next Home. And for the first time in a long time, the prospect of a 12 month lease didn’t cause me to even buckle or worry under anxiety or panicked unease. I was unconcerned. Such was my confidence that this was indeed the correct next place for me. 

A few days later my potential housemates and I met and spoke for hours. Queer women, writers, artists, community organizers. They were thoughtful, caring, compassionate, considerate. We all had wounds we could share and commiserate on together. We were all tired of bad housing situations, and so we made every effort to set a standard from the get-go of open, honest, and genuine participation in the explicit discussion of our various histories of struggle, illness, and repression. It all went better than I could have hoped. 

Then there was the hurdle of qualifying with the landlord and the lease, and yet that again all turned up roses! The landlord was amazing, gentle, and considerate--and, small world, he turned out to be friends with a family I went to school with for many years! The visceral reality of the Small City - Small World syndrome was settling in on me. I realized I had lived in almost every sort of rural and/or urban/metropolitan setting except a small city. I’d lived for considerable time in the far countryside, near country-suburbia, mid-sized city, and major metropolis--but the experience of living in a small city had yet eluded me. I looked up the population stats for Portland proper and found it was recorded at a very magical 66,666 people in 2014. Half the population of just one neighborhood (Bushwick) of Brooklyn. Less than a quarter the size of Portland, OR. It was the largest city Maine had to offer, but it was still a small city. The peninsula is about 3 miles long, and about a mile and a half wide. When you can walk from one far end to the other in less than an hour, you start to realize how truly little a city Portland really is. 

I’ve gone from leery, to excited, to ecstatic, and back again to leery. There is some great poetry at play here, with all the coincident metaphors of gestation, development, birthplace, healing, reformation, and reconciliation. I’m signing a lease on a home less than 3 blocks from the place I was physically brought into this world. I will be living, for the first time, truly in my birthcity. What will I find there? What power, and purpose, and progress will I experience? The roots of my being shudder and my spine tingles, goosebumps cover my forearms and neck, and hairs stand on end as I think about it. I mostly find myself thinking about it subconsciously. You know how sometimes you can really hear and feel your subconscious actively thinking? Like a kid shaking the bars of their crib-cage, yearning to be free of it, to walk on their own two feet into the World Outside. There’s a giddy anticipation that I feel in the deepest realms of my psyche, blood, spirit, and subconscious at the prospect of Portland, of this next move. I finally feel like this is the place where I will truly be able to reconcile my purpose with my project, and will be at last able to move forward with getting my novel published and sent into the world, my child sent off to meet and fall in love with those they will, and those they might. Gears seem to be clicking, shifting into place, greasing up in preparation for their well-oiled iteration. The timing is always different from what I expect, but always correct for what it is and must be. 

Can we ever know truly the correct timing of things until the time is upon us, at hand, demanding our attention and response? I think often of all those various manifestations of carpe diem, of mantras and idioms and self-help sayings that tell us to forge our own timing, to make any moment into the right Moment; to know that if we wait forever for the right time, that very timing will pass us by. I struggle with this very concept time and time again, as I continue to experience the anguish cycle of feeling like I need to grasp the moment and force it into submission under my hand, to veritably manhandle it. But in my experience, time doesn’t really appreciate this sort of interaction, and will usually resent those who treat it in such a way. I have a feeling all the talk of ‘carpe diem’ is in some ways another tool and exercise of the patriarchy, and it feels like an assault, a r*pe of time and timing. The ego of man, to think he might know the rules and concordances of Chronos, of Aion, of Kairos, better than time itself might. It’s as deafening as it is brow-furrowing-worthy and upsetting. In my experience, time is always quite intentional. The sensation of time taking too long seems to be an inherently masculine predilection and anxiety, propagated by capitalist patriarchy, intent on wrestling the reins of the world away from the world itself--as if that capitalist patriarchal vehicle were the only real expression of gainful progress and project, rather than just one of perpetual, nonconsensual violation of the world’s spirit, exploitation of its resources and energy reserves, and destruction of its most beloved of kin and creation. 

I’m doing my best to not force my own anxieties and despairs re: time and timing on the patterns and paths of the world intent on appearing in front of and around me. I’m doing my best to look before I leap, to be perceptive and attentive and sensitive to the changes and nudges provided in the environment in my proximity, and to listen and wait, watching for the cues to act. It’s really like any form of a partner dance--lead and follow must be in equal power balance and equal intimate awareness of the other in order to ever truly be in elegant, eloquent sync. And when they are, the whole world holds its breath in awe at the spectacle of it. I aspire to dance that dance, and to inspire an audience as I do so. That is one of the greatest and most viscerally present bastions of effective magic available to us on this plane, in this world and reality, and it is probably one of the most important powers and projects for witches everywhere to learn and display that sort of graceful balance and potent synchronization of historically estranged, othered, traumatized powers/energies/parties with one another. We must reconcile the child with the parent(s), the blood with the earth, the earth with the spirit, time with timing. We must join anew with the land we were born upon, and within, and take it hand-in-hand, bodies closely intertwined and interwoven, so that we might relieve some of those great pressure points, cosmic heat sinks of tension, trauma, anxiety and depression. I hope to begin this in earnest, in my life at least, through my coming tenancy in Portland, my blood birthplace, the city which I must inevitably come to know and love if I’m ever to aspire to be a great parent to children of my own. For, a very child of my own is imminent upon the world, and is holding itself yet at bay, in gestation, while I gradually work out as many of the kinks of parenting as I can, so that I might truly be as potent and able a sponsor of/for its growth and liberation into/of the world and those it will meet and engage in communion thereby. 

~Reading~

When I look at the card I drew for this moon, I feel such a wealth of complex feelings and emotions. This representation of the three of swords is so evocative as to shake me to the core of my being. This is a card of trauma, of failed attempts at reconciliation. It is a card of equal parts despair and hope, anguish and perseverance. Layers are being shed, and the unveiling process is always necessarily a painful one. So much of depression seems to me one of the professedly-impenetrable barriers put in place by the patriarchy to impede and prevent reconciliatory communion between flesh and spirit. Patriarchy operates on cultures and mechanisms of societal shame, guilt, regret, and angst. When one begins to attain critical awareness, the first thing they see is the endlessly wide and tall, impossibly-far-stretching Wall of Depression separating them and their present desolate place from the garden of reconciliation on the other side. Perhaps it is that we are to blame for our initial departure and exile from the Garden in the past; but our project--and it is I’m sure an attainable one--is to surmount that wall, undermine and deconstruct it, and reach again the point of true recovery and liberative awakeness in the truest expression of freedom of will that comes with harmonious cohabitation with an oppressive system, regime, environment. Depressed people are easy to control. They sit down and despair at how great the task of overcoming their inherited onus of depression tied to generational heritage of repression and indulgent regression is. We only truly lose ourselves to our shadows when we think ourselves solely consisting of light. To subvert the depressive, indulgent, recursive proclivities of our shadows, we must engage with our repressions meaningfully and earnestly. We must realize that reconciliation is not something that can be forced; it can only occur naturally. It is in many ways to be understood as a sacred, religious experience of absolution, baptism, hierogamy and braided unification. 

This card shows despair and struggle, endless difficulty and perpetual misstep, failure, self- and other-harm. But it is trying to tell us that healing is not a one-way road. It is, as with other things, a dance, a game--and a playful one at that! The subversiveness of play on despair is one of the only truly effective modes of combating the overbearing and overwhelming perpetual influence and forceful submission of the patriarchy readily available to us. You don’t grow a flower by cutting its bud. But pruning can enable for the plant to thrive far better than were it still holding onto its gangrenous, enfeebled scar-flesh. Cut away, but don’t cut off. Trimming and pruning is perhaps the most difficult-to-master art of tending to bonsai, for it requires a dubious balance of analytic and intuitive modes of engaging with the little tree. Sometimes it is best to shed ourselves of old skin, old scales, old vestiges--old memories of non-consensual action upon our being and personhood. This year’s scorpio full moon is about this shedding, and it comes with a warning to not be overzealous. A warning that if we cut too much, the plant will die; and if we cut too little, it will wither away as precious nutrients are absorbed and wasted by non-serving vestiges of a past trauma, injury, insult. 

Beauty is found in reconciliation, and reconciliation in the organic balance of time and place, body and soul, analysis and intuition, leading and following. There is no meaningful revelation without pain; no effective transition without loss. We must accept these things before they can truly come to pass, lest we betray ourselves into a recursive indulgence, a stagnant addiction to depression, repression, and personal revulsion of the self and its reflection in shadow. Truly this moon’s best name might be none other than that of Danse Macabre: the great cosmic tango between life and death, by which we might at last transcend even the most inescapable of mortal binaries.